


possess the power

by jellyb34n



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I'm in your canon bringing your women back out of the refrigerator, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Slow Burn, Thor: Ragnarok (2017)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 08:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23348329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyb34n/pseuds/jellyb34n
Summary: “Mjolnir,” Brienne breathes. She can feel Jaime’s eyes sharpen on her, the discomfiting intensity with which he has begun watching her of late. She can never properly meet his gaze when he looks at her that way, so she just flicks her eyes to the edge of his face. “May I —”“By all means,” he interrupts. She can hear the smirk in his voice.She sets her jaw. His jeering will not deter her. She is unworthy, she knows. All she wants is to touch: to know, just for a moment, the feel of something so powerful it can judge one’s heart, one’s very core. With only the pads of her fingers, she touches the handle. The supple leather gives way to cool silver. Some tightness loosens in her chest, and she grows more bold, traces her fingers along the bifurcations tenderly. She imagines that Mjolnir seems to waken under her touch. It’s impossible, she is unworthy, nothing she has done or ever will do could ever make her worthy, but just for a moment —“Lift it, wench,” Jaime says, breaking through her thoughts as he moves to stand beside her.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 74
Kudos: 84





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this amazing piece](https://ayofandomthings.tumblr.com/post/187134874858/almost-forgot-to-post-the-non-commission-info?is_related_post=1) by the ever incredible [ayofandomthings](https://ayofandomthings.tumblr.com/)! It makes me flail every time I see it (Brienne’s eyes! her physicality! her expression! the action!) It is entirely marvellous, and I love it. I also love _Thor: Ragnarok_ , and this is the result!
> 
> After working with my beta, whose brain works in awesome ways, it made the most sense to tease out what I wanted to do with this fic into three fics, beginning with this one. The whole thing takes place in canon setting Westeros, with MCU Thor lore overlaid, and borrowed elements from Ragnarok specifically. _Which canon setting,_ is a legitimate question: I'm starting with show stuff, then moving around some chronologies and borrowing book elements where it suits me. Also some borrowed dialogue from Thor: Ragnarok and GOT/ASOIAF. This prologue serves to recentre things with that in mind! 
> 
> Another key note about this prologue: it is at least twice as long as other currently written chapters...!!! So, this one is a hefty one, but chapters going forward are between 4-5K typically.
> 
> Content warnings: most are related to canon-compliant bigotries or past/ongoing abuses, and I'll include them in the chapter notes. If I've missed anything, please do let me know and I'll update accordingly with apologies (I know it can be tough sometimes to do this, so an anon comment here or on tumblr is absolutely fine). I'll always tag for anything anyone requests.
> 
> And one final note: about characters & pairings. This is predominantly a Jaime/Brienne fic, and Arya/Gendry and Sansa/Margaery will feature more as the story progresses. So while not exactly background pairings, I don’t want to mislead anyone that this is an A/G or S/M dominant/centred fic.  
> 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: There is some canon-typical ableism, allusions to past sexual assault, and some Jaime/Cersei.
> 
> My thanks to the ever marvellous C who read my many-text chain of the genesis of this fic, played with me teasing it out, staunchly encouraged its existence, endured panicked text messages, and spent many hours rewatching random clips from the show, then also rewatching Ragnarok with me at least twice in the last six months, all while being as fabulous and creative with bouncing ideas and chatting through random character or plot notes as always! Also as always, a hell of a lot of fun >:] ♥♥♥
> 
> I flailed earlier and now give so many thanks to the delightful @auntie_social who swooped in from nowhere like a becaped superbeta and has been so helpful with hammering (geddit) this into something so much more than it started out as and being very patient with all my endless and rambling notes. And also being so encouraging during my moments of spiralling self-doubt and really throughout the whole process. Most (probably all) of my favourite bits are inspired from her suggestions, and so many world-building notes come from her ideas and questions. It’s been so much fun so far, I am ridiculously glad you jumped into my ask box one random afternoon and decided to share your brain with me on this cracky endeavour ♥♥♥
> 
> As always any remaining mistakes, inaccuracies or general buffoonery are all mine!
> 
> Fic title from Marvel: “whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor”
> 
> Prologue title from Storm Comin’ by The Wailin’ Jennys (with one minor change)

_'cause you can't keep a storm from coming_

He finds, one day, no — evening, when he is lucid, that Brienne is speaking of Ser Thor and Mjolnir. He listens for a turn, his eyes closed, drawn inexorably to the softness in her voice. But as she murmurs that damned phrase, _Whosoever holds this hammer…_ Jaime groans, turns his face away. His throat scratches as he rasps, “Why are you speaking?”

The silence in response to this is almost worse than her prattle. The best part of himself is lost, and it seems his entire body mourns: burning him, a living funeral pyre. Washing in and out of his hearing now are the voices of the Bloody Mummers, and it grates at him, everything grates at him, abrading him, rubbing him raw —

Why hasn’t she _answered him?_ He turns his head back, squints painfully against the light of the fire casting the wench in shadow. Finally she whispers, “You asked me to.”

He doesn’t remember that. He doesn’t know why she would acquiesce even if he had. But he finds he’s sorry, now, that he interrupted. Misses the low tenor of her voice: a shield against the mockery of Locke and his men, and a distraction, away from the constant pain in those moments he is back to himself and thoughts of Cersei remain agonizingly out of his reach.

But he will not ask again.

He won’t.

His hallucinations are filled with it after that. That godsforsaken hammer. How it sat behind him in his chambers in the White Sword Tower. On its perch, behind the Lord Commander’s desk, just as it always has, for centuries, when it had not chosen a wielder.

He knows the stories: the lightning attacks, of course. Its abilities in flight. But it's the lesser known quality his fevered mind fixates on now. How its wielder can utilize its preternatural weight to keep a person pinned in place, simply by planting it on some part of their body. The hammer had not been wielded in some time, yet still Jaime had felt it. As he sat there with the hammer at his back. Like it pressed on his back, reminding him, constantly, of his innumerable failings.

Sometimes when she tends to him, Brienne’s touch seems to carry the hammer’s mythical weight and he gasps in breaths which worry her.

He dreams of the time he tried to lift it. He’d waited a week, after being made Lord Commander. For a night, late, when the Tower was silent and still. The city asleep.

His fever fabricates a rotating audience: sometimes they are silent. Sometimes his audience laughs. Sometimes they scoff.

Always they judge.

First there is Cersei. Then Tyrion. His father, of course. Inexplicably, the Blackfish. Catelyn bloody Stark. The _oh-so-honourable_ Ned.

Rhaegar. Often flanked by his brothers in the Kingsguard who Jaime had once admired and who are now dead.

Elia. Protectively holding Aegon to her chest, her free hand tight on little Rhaenys' shoulder.

Rhaenys. Aegon. _Elia_.

Rhaella. Weeping. Gaunt and pale. Too pale.

Ser Arthur Dayne. Ser Arthur Dayne, of course. Ser Arthur Dayne, almost always. Ser Arthur Dayne, sorrowful and disappointed and withdrawn.

He wishes to turn from them, or to tell them to leave. But in his dream it is as it was in reality: he stands from his desk, and he watches Mjolnir, and then he wraps his hands — _both hands_ — around its handle, and he pulls.

In his dreams, he pulls and he strains until his muscles burn and scream agony, his entire body protesting the effort, Mjolnir as unmoving on its pillow as though he tried to shift the entire bedrock of Casterly Rock.

It isn’t true; that’s not how any of it went; his fever and his heartache bend the memory into something worse, something more cutting than even the heartrending truth of it.

When he wakes, and can grasp at his memories, he forces himself to think on that truth, to banish the humiliation of his audience. It had been his humiliation alone: a small mercy. And it was a petty point of pride that he had not used all his strength, because he had anticipated failure.

But Mjolnir. Mjolnir had not been entirely motionless, for whatever meaningless import that had. No. Mjolnir had shivered under his grip. For one piercing moment Jaime had been certain, oh so godsfucking certain, against all conceivability, Mjolnir had _chosen him_. That, by some incomprehensible grace and unimaginable bad taste, it had deemed _him worthy_.

The shiver was all. It had remained otherwise unmoving. He did not try a second time. If Mjolnir had eventually rejected Arthur Dayne — and Jaime knew none more honourable than he — how could it ever choose _him_? With a thin smile, Jaime let go.

He had then spent the night with Cersei. Stalking the halls of the Red Keep to get to her, releasing the guard on duty outside her chambers. If Cersei had noticed his upset, she made no comment as she took hold of him, claiming him as hers. But he is not given that now: his dreams all end before granting him the succour of Cersei’s attentions.

No. All he is granted are his failings. And no matter how often he insists it to himself, his body shivers and aches beyond fever when he thinks, _What need have I now for a mythical hammer?_

At some point, a day or two before they are due to reach Harrenhal, he does ask Brienne to speak again. Again he doesn’t remember, only learns because he returns to himself and Brienne is talking. The wench, he is learning, is far too obliging. The world has already done its best to crush her, yet still she does not learn, and instead she perseveres, and gives of herself. Bloody-minded. Mulish. Pig-headed. Idealistic. Brave. Woman. A woman who will get herself killed.

Generous.

Giant, stubborn, fool.

Her voice, though. He likes her voice, and he likes her eyes. Sometimes she looks at him, and her voice laps at him as he floats in the calm of her eyes. She speaks now on other things, studiously avoids Mjolnir or Ser Thor. He manages to goad her into near enough territories: learns what she knows of Heimdall’s missing greatsword. Of the abilities of the Faceless Men.

He almost chuckles, once, at the roll of revulsion in her voice for the theft of likenesses; more disgust that some think it requires the literal skinning of a person. He does manage to say, “Loki, wench. Loki would steal faces if he’d not had the magic to imitate instead. Does your honour not require you respect the God of Mischief?”

His vision clears long enough to catch the derisive roll of her eyes, the way her lip curls, and through the haze of heat and pain and nausea, there’s a tickle of amusement in his gut which trades itself with a tremble in his heart he doesn’t understand.

He turns away, and he listens to her voice, and he tries to think of Cersei.

* * *

It’s almost nice, here. Lady Olenna’s rooms capture more sun than do the chambers she shares with Tyrion, and the way Olenna has decorated the veranda allows the scented breeze to blow in from the gardens, but limits what any nearby might see. Sansa feels _almost_ safe. Nowhere in King’s Landing is truly safe, but here…

Margaery’s hand lands lightly on her own, and even that is nice. The only touch she has received of late has been cruel, Joffrey smirking somewhere as he watches, but she thinks Margaery is kind. Probably. Margaery’s touch, though, is certainly gentle. Almost without thinking, Sansa turns her hand over, curls her fingers around Margaery’s. Struck, suddenly, by what she’s done, Sansa sneaks a quick look at her. But Margaery only smiles back, and gives her hand a light squeeze. Then her eyes return to her grandmother.

Sansa makes herself focus on the conversation. “Perhaps,” Lady Olenna is saying, a sardonic thread to her tone, “They might have had more success with more pamphlets.” Sansa had lost track of the conversation, and this means nothing to her at all.

Margaery though, seems aware. She says, “Pamphlets or no, I can sympathize with their goals. The smallfolk were being treated horribly. What could they do but rebel?” She leans forward, snags a grape and pops it into her mouth. Sansa likes the thoughtful look Margaery wears as she chews. The way she tilts her head, her hair falling away to reveal her long neck.

Margaery is perhaps everything Sansa had hoped of Cersei, and at once, that frightens her, making her feel cold in the warm afternoon. Having hopes of others… She might, just, be able to trust the Tyrells not to feed her to the lions. But beyond that, there is no room for trust.

Sansa slips her hand free from Margaery’s, and if Margaery thinks anything of it, she doesn’t show any response. Only pulls her hand away to drape lightly across her waist as she lounges back in her seat, away from Sansa.

Margaery says, “The Greyjoy Rebellion, however, was an exercise in gross hubris. As though they’d the sense to implement any order without the oversight of the Iron Throne.”

“Ah,” Lady Olenna says. “But men who privately sense their pitiable intellects inadequate will chafe under any kind of rulership. Sensible or otherwise.”

“Not only men,” Sansa says darkly. Then swallows, nervy. “I didn’t mean —”

“No, child,” Olenna says. And Sansa is both pleased and nonplussed under her assessing stare. “You are right. There are those who chafe, no matter what lies between their thighs. You are quite right. It is the heart that matters.”

“The heart? Grandmother,” Margaery says, flicking a kind smile at Sansa even while her tone to her grandmother is dry. “Do you become romantic in your dotage?”

“Not romantic,” Olenna says archly. “Only observant.”

She doesn’t say anything, but Sansa thinks any talk of the heart is romantic, and that romance is for foolish children. She wants to shed her foolishness, her childish hopes and dreams which linger despite her best efforts to be rid of them. She wants to become like her lady mother. Poised, brave. Shrewd.

Shuddering, she smothers all feelings at the thought of her family. Denies the tremble of longing she feels for her mother and the twist of jealousy that Robb might get to keep her so close. The icy fear for all her siblings; Arya, impossible and vanished. Sansa is ruthless, smothering the stab of grief for her father. She clenches her fists, breathes deep, imagines herself far distant from her feelings for they will not help her. Not here. There is only so much she might hope for in this place.

She tries again to focus on the conversation between Margaery and Olenna, but she remains distracted, despairing of her childish hopes for loving and romantic heroes who might take her away and make her safe. Despite such a thing being impossible for her now, tied as she is to Tyrion, she insists to herself that given another chance, she would forgo all the romance and love in Westeros if it meant she might find a spouse who would respect her, as her father had respected her mother.

What was love, but a weakness, after all? The Lannisters had taught her that.

* * *

There is no time to delay: she must leave the city, and soon, before all trace of Lady Sansa is lost. But Jaime bid her see him here, and she can’t help but look around herself with interest. The White Sword Tower. The Lord Commander’s chambers. She understands better now the pretense and complexity here, for Jaime especially. But still: this is a place of legend, of regard throughout the Seven Kingdoms. And where _Mjolnir_ rests between wielders. She had never thought — had never _expected…_

Brienne looks at Jaime. He watches her, a small, sardonic smile on his face. She thinks that she might compliment him: for all his self-disparagement, the complications he faces, the Kingsguard uniform suits him. It isn’t just — _Everything_ suits him, she thinks, and feels her cheeks prickle faintly with heat. But it isn’t just in appearance. The uniform is cleverly designed, and speaks of honour and of knightly oaths. Jaime looks the knight he is in this uniform. Or perhaps… Perhaps, she concedes, the knight he could be again. Should he cleave to the honour she has seen in him.

He also looks healthier. His cheeks are filling out. His colour has returned. Relief eases her shoulders, and she returns his smile. Though only just, and without any wryness attached.

Jaime blinks when she smiles. And a look crosses his face that she can’t name: surprise? She should have anticipated it; he has never seen her smile, and she knows it does not make her face any easier to look on. She turns her face away and she sees —

“ _Mjolnir_ ,” Brienne breathes. She can feel Jaime’s eyes sharpen on her, the discomfiting intensity with which he has begun watching her of late. She can never properly meet his gaze when he looks at her that way, so she just flicks her eyes to the edge of his face. “May I —”

“By all means,” he interrupts. She can hear the smirk in his voice.

She sets her jaw. His jeering will not deter her. She is unworthy, she knows. All she wants is to touch: to know, just for a moment, the feel of something so powerful it can judge one’s heart, one’s very core. With only the pads of her fingers, she touches the handle. The supple leather gives way to cool silver. Some tightness loosens in her chest, and she grows more bold, traces her fingers along the bifurcations tenderly. She imagines that Mjolnir seems to waken under her touch. It’s impossible, she is unworthy, nothing she has done or ever will do could ever make her worthy, but just for a moment —

“Lift it, wench,” Jaime says, breaking through her thoughts as he moves to stand beside her. Again, she feels his eyes on her. Watching her face. Again, she doesn’t meet his look. There’s a barely perceptible melodic strain in the air which calls to her and she presses her fingers more firmly to Mjolnir’s handle. Jaime tries to goad her, saying, “I’ve never known you to be craven.”

“You mean to mock me, Ser,” she says absently. Certain as she is that Mjolnir will not budge for her, she cannot stop touching it. She sets her fingers to the edge of its head, traces the intricate carvings in its side. If she did not know better, she might swear it thrums under her fingers, that she feels in her mind the echo of thunder, tastes the lightning on the back of her tongue.

Jaime’s voice is strange when he says, “I always mean to mock you,” and she wishes he would leave her be. But of course, he so rarely heeds her wishes. He continues, in that same strange voice, “But what do I matter? Try it, Lady Brienne.”

Distantly, something in the way he says _lady_ lands in her gut, like it discomfits him as much as it does her. Her name, though, seems safe in his mouth, but she can’t seem to focus, to make sense of that at all. Mjolnir stirs, she must imagine, impatient under her touch.

And, _oh_. She does want to try.

More forceful, Jaime’s voice a growl that folds into the growing thunder in her ears, “ _Brienne_. See if you might lift it.”

Lightning strikes in her mind’s eye, crackles down her arm to dance under the flesh of her fingers. She extends her arm, wraps her hand around Mjolnir’s handle, fits her palm tight to the leather, draws a deep breath and _pulls_.

Recognition is instant, and staggering, and almost painful, as Mjolnir rises, seems to breathe in time with her, a current of joy that spreads through her veins to set her alight.

She sighs out, long and slow and relieved, and inhales deep, grounded, grounded in a way she can’t remember ever feeling. Its weight is designed for her. Mjolnir in her touch is warm and comfortable. It extends to her some power that reverberates in her bones, like the rediscovery of something she had long forgot.

Brienne _welcomes_ it. Some voice in her mind cautions her, but Brienne ignores it. She lets herself linger instead, accept everything Mjolnir offers to her.

Eventually, after another, and another, and another, deep and trembling breath, she looks at Jaime. Meets his gaze. His eyes blaze at her, his face almost savage with satisfaction. She laughs, because she feels so much, her body overflowing and radiant with it all, and Mjolnir sings in her mind and is the most beautiful thing she has ever known. And Jaime, Jaime looks so _alive,_ just as she has never seen him, just as she wishes he might always be.

She can’t remember when last she knew this feeling: a chance to breathe without shadows.

She doesn’t understand it. But it is no lie. Jaime is here, and Jaime witnesses it all, and in this moment, she trusts him to, as Mjolnir fits perfect in her palm.

It’s too soon after that when Brienne looks over her shoulder, in new armour as a new horse carries her away. She meets Jaime’s eyes and cannot read his expression. It resonates with something in her chest, but she doesn’t know what it means. It — it rends her heart — _But you love him_ — and her chin wobbles, betrays her. Before he might see, might _know_ , she looks away.

She looks towards the path she walks.

_I bid you call it Oathkeeper_ , he had said. Absurd. The inconceivable _hubris_ , even from Jaime, to rename a weapon of the gods. His face, though. His expression. She hadn't...

Oathkeeper is inexplicably perfectly weighted on her hip. It almost seems that it tries to soothe her, offering some mournful trill in her mind like it knows, like it understands.

After a moment’s hesitation, Brienne takes her reins in her left hand, reaches to caress Oathkeeper with the knuckles of her right. She thinks of Lady Catelyn, and sorrow grips her heart. It isn’t — Brienne misses her. She had failed her once, parted from her when she died, and she cannot do the same again.

Brienne thinks then of Sansa. She had looked so young and so delicate when Brienne had seen her that once from afar. She thinks of Arya. Brienne had never met her, but Jaime called the girl _feral_ , and Brienne thinks she might better know what to do with a wolfish girl. But for now, they’re both — lost. Alone.

A different thought billows: the possibility both she and Jaime might have traveled together to fulfill their oath to Lady Catelyn. When she had glanced back, it had almost seemed he had taken steps after her, and... But then, he wouldn’t be — And truly, Brienne could not —

She swallows, stretches her arm down, puts her hand on Oathkeeper’s handle and when it offers a different song, like just before she lifted it, a song like hope. Brienne sets her shoulders, decisively puts Jaime from her mind, and releases Oathkeeper to take up her reins in both hands once more.

She looks at Podrick, plodding along beside her and sneaking nervous looks her way. She manages not to sigh, and thinks she keeps her expression mostly blank as she appraises him. A sturdy lad, she’ll grant him that.

“Do you know how to fight, Podrick?” she asks.

He looks at her worriedly and says, “I had some success at Blackwater, Ser. My lady. Ser.”

Brienne does sigh then, but Oathkeeper hums approvingly.

* * *

Jaime has stood here an eternity and will stand an eternity more. Tommen — _King Tommen_ — stands, looking decidedly green, by his brother’s empty, grotesque husk. What does it say about him that he feels more for Tommen’s clear upset, that the most he feels for Joffrey is the failure to his king? He laments the passing of his eldest son not at all. Myopic, cruel boy that he was.

He draws a deep breath, and immediately regrets it, the godsawful smell seeming to fill his nose to settle thick on his tongue. He breathes slowly, heavily, out and looks away from Joffrey, only to meet Cersei’s gaze where she stands beside Tommen. There’s a heat in her eyes he recognizes, even amidst the mask of her grief, and he feels a respondent flare.

Only the night before, they had fucked here, in this room. They had been frantic, and Jaime so godsdamned grateful, nearly tripping with her to the Mother’s altar, his son’s corpse behind his back. He had hidden his maimed arm before she might comment. Or. Or nothing. He helped her up, onto the altar as best he could with only the one hand — his weaker hand. But that didn’t matter. _Doesn’t_ matter. His blood burned with the want of her, his heart pounding out relief as Cersei welcomed him. Just exactly as he remembered, gasping that he hurry.

_Hurry, damn you. I need you. Jaime._

The memory plays hot in his mind: how violently she pulled at her skirts, spread her silken thighs. She had seized him, grabbed him close and desperate into the blessed, familiar heat of her. Cersei’s mouth, her kiss — just as urgent and as deep, the clutch of her like his memories. Better, he thinks, insists to himself. She was all he had been wanting as he survived and walked those endless leagues.

Some revulsion rolls through him, though he can’t think why. Perhaps only that there had been no release — well, there was _release_ , he thinks, wry. _Finally_. And for them both, there had been that much.

But something remains… locked. Closed off to him. Or worse: perhaps lost. He has returned home wrong. Something in him isn’t right, and he can’t name it.

The weight of his new hand draws him. The gold seems never to heat, and even the soft velvet meant to aid his scarring flesh in learning the new feel of his prosthetic seems cold, penetrating. All of it is heavy, too, and that frustrates him. Had he been at his former strength, it would not bother him at all. What were these few pounds when he once wielded a blade?

His jaw clenches as he shifts, and Cersei’s eyes drop to his arm. Her lips curl, she manages just not to flinch, but he knows her face as he knows his own. His chest tightens, but he cannot blame her. His handlessness is grotesque, he knows. He is no longer as perfect as she: not that he ever truly was. Some dim reflection the best he might attain. And he may have hoped — but he ought to have known better. She will come to accept, he thinks. Just as he would accept her. And if Cersei takes longer than he might were their positions reversed, well. He has always been the weaker between them.

He looks away from Cersei to Tommen, then to Joffrey, before his eyes settle on a carving of the Father. Distantly, there’s a pang somewhere under his breastbone and he drops his gaze from the Father’s face to his chest, lets his eyes focus on the middle distance instead. He rolls his right shoulder, flexes his arm, and the cold bites at his stump, the weight dragging at him.

* * *

Oathkeeper offers a low song in her ears. Her heart flutters.

From the first, she has always trusted weapons: it’s a strange thing, perhaps, though she thinks the best fighters might understand. Jaime would, of course. And it’s true that many will speak of well-made swords as though they have minds of their own in some way: in particular, the way fighters speak of Valyrian steel… She had dreamt, once, of bearing such a blade.

Oathkeeper, though. Oathkeeper is a weapon _truly_ with a mind of its own, bestowed upon it by the gods in some way which Brienne thinks she should find discomfiting and instead...

Instead, it settles in the back of her mind like faith. She finds it easier to straighten her spine, to square her shoulders in moments where before she might want to make herself small. It sings in her mind, like it is in conversation with her. She feels a little less lonely.

And this, before she has done more than practise with it as with any normal war hammer. They are only a few weeks out of King’s Landing, and have seen no trouble, and while she is grateful in many ways that things are peaceful, she also grows impatient. When on watch, she thinks of little else than a review of all she knows of the legends. Mjolnir’s chosen wielder is able to utilize the hammer to channel certain abilities. Those she believes to be confirmed from the time Ser Arthur Dayne wielded it include controlling storms, calling lightning down on opponents, those things over which Ser Thor was a god. The hammer is also meant to follow certain paths or trajectories which defy reason when thrown; that it will then return to the hand which throws it.

It is said Ser Arthur once killed sixty men with one throw of Mjolnir. An exaggerated number, she expects. But perhaps there is some truth to it. One or two, at least, killed from a single throw.

She hefts Oathkeeper, feels the quiver across her face as she tries to keep herself from smiling. Oathkeeper warbles in a way she might describe as amused. She glances at Podrick. He remains, as she requested, off to the side of the clearing they’ve found, well outside what should be the trajectory of her throw. But this is the first time she has tried and as she cannot predict what will happen…

“Sit down,” she snaps. Pod looks at her wide-eyed and immediately complies, falling to the ground cross-legged.

“I meant on the stump,” she mutters, and Podrick hesitates only a moment before shifting to the fallen tree immediately to his right. She really wishes she had no audience for this, but… She extends her arm back, thinks of exactly where she wants Oathkeeper to go, and throws.

Oathkeeper sails through the air, trailing a happy trill through her mind and Brienne draws a deep breath, raising her hand and willing it back. It rises in a smooth arc, then settles back along the same line she had thrown until it lands, gentle against her palm.

Her heart pounds and her breathing is shallow, and she smiles as she looks over at Podrick. He grins up at her, somehow sweet and somehow proud, and Brienne does not know what to do with the lad, but she can’t say she still entirely regrets his company.

“My lady,” he says impressed, and Brienne’s smile falls.

“Please, Podrick,” she says. “ _Please_ call me Brienne.”

“Brienne,” he says, like her name might bite him. “Have you tried to call the thunder yet?”

She hesitates.

It is something she very much wants to do. She has always loved the storm, all her life. When she was very young, while her mother and her brother were still alive, she remembers curling up near the hearth on the coldest, darkest stormy days with her family. It may be the shine of distance, but those memories always feel warm and safe. There had been other times, throughout her life when she was allowed her happiness, or could dash into the downpour where her Septa would never go, where she could laugh and shout her joy free of her body and shared with the storm, kicking at puddles. The lightning would strike somewhere out to sea, spears of light which brightened the clouds, imprinted on her eyelids and felt like her feelings were shared and writ across the whole sky.

When the gods conspired to take so much from her in so short a time, to reconfigure the shape of her life with no hesitation or consideration, the storms became a refuge of another kind. She had none who would see her grief and understand. For her father, she needed to be strong. Holding her tears in, and keeping her face from trembling, as any slight reminder of the loss had been liable to send him into the throes of grief and she did not know what to do to bring him back even to the tenuous equilibrium he managed. Vulnerability before her Septa, she had learned quickly, was not an option for her. Poisoned, impatient words and cruel looks spread burning through her and she could do little to protect against it.

The storms though. Storms never judge. The pounding rain and growling thunder had hidden the sound of her anguished howls late at night when she was at last left to herself. The storms drenched her and so her tears were lost to the rain; the water weighing down her clothes, a grounding when grief made her dizzy, light-headed, stealing her breath and making her a stranger in her own body. The winds whipped away the confessions of her inadequacies in a world which demanded all of her nonetheless, and gave so very little in turn.

Serving Renly, she had thought she might for once give willingly of herself, and then find… purpose. _Her_ purpose. She might choose to serve, be secret and free in loving him, nothing stolen from her. But she had failed Renly, worthless, watching his murder. Then it was Lady Catelyn. Taking her in. Brienne had never known a woman so noble; thought perhaps, though it pained her, that Catelyn had understood her better even than Renly. Might recognize Brienne’s need to be put to honourable use. Charged with retrieving her daughters: what could be more worthy a purpose than that? But Catelyn, too, was taken, and so viciously, so dishonourably, leaving only a desperation in Brienne’s chest for her daughters. Lost, now, alone, in the world.

And now, Oathkeeper. It sings to her constantly, bolstering somehow, and she leans into it even when a voice in her mind cautions her. She feels, too, the trust Jaime placed in her as some constant which she fears: there had been no formal bond between them, only the oaths extracted from Catelyn. Yet still his trust, his faith, rests in the easy fit of her armour, in each soft sound her horse makes, in Podrick’s clumsiness whenever he _tries_. And Pod, he does not ever stop trying.

She does not know what to do with — with any of it. Tenuous. It all feels tenuous, soon to be taken, and Brienne — Gods, but she wants to keep it all.

And that was the thing with the storms on Tarth. When one ended, she knew it would soon return. She misses so much of Tarth since leaving its shores for Renly’s campaign, but it might be the storms she misses most. The storms had always been hers. To make that literal, as Mjolnir allows its wielders to do, is something she longs for, but also something she —

“My la — Brienne?” Pod prompts. “Have you called the thunder yet?”

“I have not,” she says. She looks down at Oathkeeper in her hand: the light of evening hits it in odd ways, catching on the edges of the carvings sometimes as though they are sharp, liable to cut, when she knows the bevel is gentle. Other times, it seems almost like fabric, soft and inviting. It thrums, in the back of her mind, and whispers to her of thunder and the boiling of the clouds before lightning strikes.

She looks away from it, and says, “Another time, perhaps.”

Instead she raises it, and throws it again.

* * *

Jaime shucks his boots, throws off his cloak, and lies down on the cot without bothering to rid himself of anything else. He can still just make out the final strains of The Rains of Castamere, and he is confident, having looked in Edmure’s eyes, of the outcome. But the flaccid minnow Tully may take his time, unlike his decisive sturgeon of an uncle, and Jaime wants this damn siege ended.

Settling on his back, he struggles to close his eyes, staring instead at the gently fluttering red fabric of his tent over his head. He tires of it. All the red. And the gold. His gold hand rests heavily across his stomach. The chilled bite he feels leeching up his arm from his stump, seems to pass through his armour, his leathers, the layers of cloth between, press cold and leaden against his flesh.

He wonders how he would have reacted, had someone threatened to send one of his children, as babes, over the walls of the Red Keep by way of catapult. It would depend, of course, who threatened it. How likely it was they would follow through. And as a Kingsguard, he would do his duty.

As their father —

_You are no more their father than you will ever be a husband_.

The Lannister red mocks him, and Jaime rolls to his side. There is red there, too, but hidden behind various accoutrements. Indicators of rank and status. A desk he rarely uses; a rail for clothes; the chest in which they traveled; washbasin; razor; a mirror —

He had not thought of Cersei when speaking with Edmure. Not once. He shifts uncomfortably, a chill chasing down his spine, faintly nauseous. The last he had been in the Riverlands, he thought of little else than returning to her. But tonight…

Tonight, he is fed up. Tired of wasting lives and spilling blood that need not be spilled. Red. Tired of the games played at the expense of those who have no say, and yet will still suffer. Gold. He is a worthless knight in a world which despises anything good. Blue.

_Blue_.

Inexplicably, the wench comes to mind. He wonders where she is, and if she is well. When Oathkeeper was absented from his office, the rumours about _who_ and _when_ and _how_ had spread quickly — thanks to servants, Jaime guesses, perhaps his own men. As far as he knows, the wench hasn’t yet been associated with it. Anonymity is safer for her, but he can’t imagine it will take long, the lumbering, noble giant. Stubborn. Idealistic fool.

Gods, he hopes she is safe.

Safe. As though any of them, anyone, is ever safe. The wench has affected him; he becomes just as foolish: _hoping_.

It grows colder, and he didn’t think to send with her a cloak.

He shivers, glances at the brazier and wonders when last anyone tended it. He might slip under the blankets, but his bed feels especially empty of late. Not that his bed has ever been shared. No, it is he who shares, at the whim of Cersei, and when he can exploit the vagaries of Kingsguard scheduling. Still, for a few moments he indulges, tries to imagine Cersei crawling into the cot beside him, pliant and warm, curling under his arm and lending him heat with kisses.

He finds it difficult to focus on the vision. He hadn’t trouble before seeing Cersei in his mind. Memories of her, bright as the sun in their youth. Or more recent times. It had been easy once. Ought to be easier now. He knows best how to wring from her bitten off cries and straining pleasure. And they have reunited, that once. It ought to be _easy_.

But.

Tyrion is also a shadow at the edge of his thoughts; tinged in fury and regret and Jaime misses him as much as he wants never to see him again, and Cersei — if not for — Tyrion would otherwise never have —

He moves his right arm before remembering, his gold hand clangs against his chestplate, startling him, antagonizing him, and with a low growl he does what he meant: passes his left hand down his face. It isn’t — the motion is _wrong_. Everything is godsfucking _wrong_.

He sits up, swings his legs over the side of his cot. Shoves his feet into his boots. Pulls on his cloak.

He stares at it. White. Red. What matter. Any cloak he wears is heavy on his shoulders.

He throws open the flap of his tent and stalks out, seeks something else to occupy him until that godsforsaken Tully coward finds the steel it seems his dead sister knew better how to wield.

* * *

Brienne turns to Pod and offers her arm. He accepts readily, coming quickly again to his feet, and Brienne releases him as soon as he steadies. It is a relief to have thwarted one attack; for the last several moons, these roads have been curiously treacherous beyond the ever-present threat of the war, and the smallfolk are fearing. She and Podrick had promised to do what they could for them, and with most of the attackers dead, she now seeks an explanation.

She strides back to where she had left Oathkeeper on the chest of one of their attackers, pinning the man down.

“Who do you serve?” she says, and tries to channel the most commanding voice she knows.

The man gawps up at her, straining, his face a deep red, veins thick bands on his neck. She leans down, puts her boot on his chest before lifting Oathkeeper. Brienne breathes deep and feels the tremor of a smile at the moment of respite as Oathkeeper sings a greeting in her mind, fits familiarly in her palm. Some tension at their separation — brief though it was — drains from her body.

She refocuses. “Who do you serve?” she asks again as he gasps in desperate breaths.

To this, the man gives her some glinting, malicious grin. “Same as you. Before you broke your vow.”

Brienne sneers at him. “I have broken no vow.”

“There’s one who doesn’t agree with you,” he says. “Your armour is very fine, lady. Are those lions, I see?”

“Tell me who you serve,” she says again, adding pressure to her boot on his chest. “Why do you set upon travellers on this route?”

“How often did you suck the Kingslayer’s cock for him to give you that hammer?”

“Mjolnir cannot be _given_ ,” she snarls. No woman has ever levelled the charge at her, but he is not the first man to suggest it. It is a very recent turn. It raises a fury in her: as though Oathkeeper might be won in such an exchange; as though she might dishonour herself; as though Jaime might degrade them all. Her blood is up from the fight, and she considers bringing Oathkeeper forward again. Its song rolls in her ears, a quiet exaltation to fight. “You speak of a holy weapon.”

“I speak to a whore.”

“Enough,” Brienne growls, Oathkeeper’s song growing louder. The sky darkens, and the world seems to growl with her. Lightning flavours the air, lifting the hair on the back of her neck. “You _will_ answer my questions.”

“All right,” he says, eyes flitting from Brienne to the sky and finally to Oathkeeper as she brings it close to his chest. “What was it —”

Some shadowy whisp creeps out from under his plate and the man yelps when he sees it. He flails, and Oathkeeper warbles and Brienne’s mouth goes dry watching the shadow move, her heart thundering in her ears. She jerks back, but must _stop it, Gods_ but she needs to _stop it_ — _How can I fight a shadow?_ — there’s nothing, no answer. There’s _nothing she can do_ , and she is helpless against it, Oathkeeper buzzing in her mind as the storm crescendos overhead.

The shadow is curled around his throat like a noose, pulling and tightening, as he writhes and gasps and scrabbles violently at his throat, at the nothing which is stealing his breath —

He shudders, then sags, and Brienne watches horrified, frozen, as the smoke dissolves to nothing. Piss scents the air as the man’s body voids itself, and at once the man is Renly, is never Renly, Renly had not died like this — not exactly like this — the man’s throat grows red where the shadow had him, like a rope had done this, and Brienne swallows bile — _Who?_ —

Oathkeeper trills and Brienne sways, then jolts to action. She plants her feet, ready to fight, lowering herself. Her head snaps up to peer into the woods, but she sees nothing. The rumbling in the sky buries any sound, the dark of her clouds casting the forest into deep shadow, and whoever was there is as good as gone. If anyone had been there at all.

Anger drowns out the lingering thoughts of Renly, and a loud crack of thunder echoes her frustration before the skies clear.

Podrick falls to his knees beside the man. Brienne opens her mouth to snap at him not to touch the marks, but he seems to know already, his fingers hovering over the red at the man’s throat before he reaches up to instead close his eyes.

“I…” Pod’s voice trembles, and he clears his throat. “I haven’t seen anything like this before.”

Brienne tries to loosen her jaw. She says, “I have. Something like this…” She swallows bile again, the ache of her failure to Renly — echoing now, a failure to Catelyn, her terror of failing Sansa, and Arya, _Jaime_ — making her feel cold. “Something like this murdered King Renly.”

She can’t meet Pod’s gaze, feeling his horrified stare and unsure what secrets play on her own face. She says gruffly, “See if he carries anything which might identify him.”

She watches without seeing as Pod searches, finally taking from the man’s boot a dagger. He unsheaths it, makes a _tutting_ sound at the poorly kept state of it which is almost enough to make her smile, and then hands it to her. Brienne examines it: rough, needing sharpening, but otherwise unremarkable —

“The rumours are true then,” says a voice behind her. Brienne stiffens. She knows that voice; had thought herself long rid of the man. She can hear the smug turn of his smile, the low voice he uses when he thinks he’s being charming. Podrick glances at her, then looks past her shoulder, frowning and getting to his feet. She doesn’t turn, not yet, only draws a deep breath. He continues, that same damn tone, “I’m clever enough to know that the Kingslayer couldn’t have _given_ Mjolnir to you. But it does live between wielders in the Lord Commander’s chambers. So he must have granted you the access.”

She passes the dagger back to Pod and slips Oathkeeper’s handle through the special loop for it in her sword belt. A detail on her armour which daily bewilders her, that Jaime might have been so certain Mjolnir would choose her to specify it. But Brienne doesn’t want to think of Jaime, and how his faith in her might come to naught. And Oathkeeper — the thought that Mjolnir might have made a mistake is never far. As always, Oathkeeper murmurs some soft and soothing rebuke. But it has been so many turns of the moon and she has only managed to lose Arya Stark, and remains no closer to finding Sansa than she had been the day she left. Catelyn is never far from her thoughts. And now, the mysterious attacks plaguing the Riverlands, the rumours circling Brienne… She does not want this, too.

She turns to face him. She holds herself stiffly, inclines her head. “Ser Hyle.”

Hyle Hunt grins at her. Once, she’d have thought him handsome. Now, her fists curl and it irks that she was denied the opportunity at Bitterbridge to pummel him into submission. He says, “I know better than to ask if you traded a favour for that access,” and Brienne very nearly does punch him then. The sky above them darkens again, Podrick watches her closely, but Hunt seems oblivious. “Worthy though, my lady. Well met.”

“What is it you want?” she asks.

She catches as Hunt’s expression sours for a beat before smoothing again. “I hear you seek a girl. Auburn hair. Six and ten.” He cocks his head. Says thoughtfully, “Though she must now be seven and ten.”

Podrick shifts his weight and Brienne just resists the urge to mirror him. Instead she settles one hand on Oathkeeper’s head, her fingers finding the familiar slopes and notches of the carvings, her other hand resting on the hilt of the blade she keeps her left hip, just in case. “I do,” she says.

“Lady Sansa Stark,” he says.

Brienne stiffens, resolutely holds Hunt’s gaze. His smile widens; whatever small advantage she had is lost. She sets her jaw. “I do not know the girl.”

“That is not a denial of your search, Lady Brienne,” Hunt hums to her.

When she takes a step towards him, he raises his hands in peace — as though Hunt has ever sought _peace_ — and says, “I would help you find her.”

* * *

“The Many-Faced God,” the kindly man says, “Tell me, child, what you know of the faith.”

Arya stretches her legs before settling into her seat. “They say the Many-Faced God defies naming, and that its name is Loki and Hela. The Stranger and the Black Goat and the Lion of the Night. A dozen other names, many lost to us.”

“And what of Loki?” he asks.

Arya tilts her head, wonders if it is a trap. Of those she listed, Loki is no god of death; she cannot fathom his belonging to this place. “Loki is the God of Mischief,” she says. “He can change his face and he can cast illusions.”

“Among other things,” the kindly man agrees. “And Hela?”

“The Goddess of Death and the Underworld,” she says. She pulls her legs back, rests her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fists. _Hela_. Her knee bounces a little as she continues, “I read she can draw blades from thin air.”

Arya has dreamed of Hela. Has wondered whether she might hide Needle in whatever realm Hela keeps her own blades. After reciting her prayer, she dreams that she might find each on her list and call on Needle, on a dozen different daggers and swords, and take their lives like they stole her father and her mother and her brothers and her sister. Her friends, and all the smallfolk they hurt and killed and made the mistake of confessing within her hearing. Only as they die beneath her do they realize she is no helpless girl. Only as they die do they realize they ought never have crossed the Starks.

Unbidden, she thinks of Gendry. Aches with missing him: tall and strong, and steady as he is peevish. Her best friend. And.

The kindly man clears his throat, and she shoves thoughts of Gendry aside. Arya says, “She claims the dead for her domain.”

“Good,” he says. “Tell me, what does _valar morghulis_ mean?”

Deep in her belly curls, blood-soaked and fathomless, some living thing which roots itself in her gut and sends tendrils to wrap around her bones, spiralling through her muscles to blossom in her blood. She says, the wanting heavy on her tongue: “All men must die.”

“And the response?”

“ _Valar dohaeris._ All men must serve.” A significantly less interesting premise, Arya thinks. She respects the idea, in the way that it meant Jaqen had repaid her and done what she asked. Beyond that though… Too many still walk in Westeros to whom Arya owes vengeance.

Still, she tries to arrange her face into an expression of interest. As the kindly man chuckles in response, she reckons she’s failed. The urge to stick her tongue out is strong, but she manages to resist.

“Should your time with us proceed smoothly, at some point you shall choose. For now, I want you to remember only what I am about to tell you. It is the only thing you may carry with you when you cast aside your name and your identity.”

She leans forward and nods. “Tell me.”

“Death is natural. It is the merciful end to suffering.” Arya nods, feeling again that breathing thing stir deep inside. The kindly man holds up a finger. “So, too, is the absolute collapse of power. The Many-Faced God oversees both.”

An image comes to mind, then, of Joffrey. Not dead at her feet, but on his knees and at her mercy. _Entirely_. All the power he wielded to harm stripped from him to leave him snivelling and pathetic before her.

But Arya has no interest in that. She shakes her head, clears that image of Joffrey. She only wants to learn their trade to take what she is owed for the violence wrought on her family and her friends and innocent, unwitting smallfolk.

* * *

“When you attack the Faith, you attack the Crown. Anyone who attacks the Crown is unworthy to serve as a member of the Kingsguard.”

_Unworthy_. His palms prickle, remembering the shiver of Mjolnir under his grip, and he thinks for a sickening moment that his son must somehow know.

But of course — it is impossible. He resists narrowing his eyes at Tommen sitting easily on the Throne above him.

Jaime does not know when Tommen began to look as though he belongs on the Iron Throne, but it discomfits him. Robert had never truly looked at ease. Nor Joff, play though he did at insouciance. Only Aerys had sat comfortably on a chair made of blades, and that Tommen, young and sweet Tommen, might begin to fit there too is the strongest showing that Jaime has failed his son and his king, just as he has failed everyone else.

It is futile, Jaime can tell. Yet still he tries. He must always try.

He emphasizes his years of service, and when Tommen is not at all swayed, he says, “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do anything.”

It’s pitiful really, pathetic, when Tommen says, “I have to answer to the gods.”

The gods. The _gods_. As though the gods have done anything for any Lannister — or Baratheon. A niggle in his mind reminds him of one god, but there is no time for that. She is not here: she ought never again be _here_.

Tommen is a fucking Lannister, whether he knows it or not. Lannisters answer to none but themselves. Jaime looks at his son, at how this Lannister fits there on that thrice-damned throne, and says, “Not when you sit in that chair.”

Tommen, unmoved, says, “The Crown’s decision on this matter is final.”

It takes a great deal for him to feel humiliated, particularly in front of this court of idiots and leeches. Yet still, with his son and king looking down on him, speaking words that were clearly not his own, voice quietly quaking, the only sign of his youth, Jaime feels it.

And that this is because he had sought to support the Tyrells — Margaery, in particular, such a thorn in Cersei’s side — turns his humiliation biting. He remembers her, Margaery, on that day. Silent, and docile. In a sack, on the cusp of a cruelty he’d not even conceive of for those he most hates. She, though, had been cunning.

Many vining plants find their ways into the strangest of places, he had once been told, and choke the life of the plants they dominate. He wonders if rose vines do the same.

A problem for another time.

He doesn’t look to any member of the Faith, but he unsticks his tongue and pitches his voice to carry, “Will I be walking naked through the streets?” he asks, caustic, not missing the shadow that crosses Tommen’s face. “Or is that a punishment reserved solely for women who cross our most virtuous High Sparrow?”

Tommen doesn’t react to this, but from the corner of his eye he sees Margaery straighten. It’s a slow movement, one that many might miss. But Jaime is familiar enough with the Tyrells to note when a hit has landed. And so it should. Had she ensured her grandmother, at least, knew of her plans, he might not be standing here, losing one of the pillars of his life and being made all the more distant from his son.

He adds, “Or will I spend a few months in the Sept dungeons first?” Margaery shifts again. “To teach me about the gods’ mercy?”

Revolted, fury itching across his chest, Jaime watches as this, _this,_ is what discomfits Tommen most. The idea of locking his uncle away for the crime of standing up for his queen. Not sending a woman nude through the streets of the city she is meant to rule. He thinks of Cersei, and of his own role in his son’s life, and the failure gnaws at him, snags against his mounting fury.

Tommen says, “You have served your House and your King faithfully for many years. And you will continue to do so. But not like this. You may go, Ser Jaime.”

* * *

Brienne sits uncomfortably at the edge of the tavern, surrounded by a group of women. A little girl is sat on her boot, leaning against her leg greave as though that’s a comfortable or reasonable place to sit, as though it were perfectly normal for anyone to be touching Brienne at all. Sometimes the girl toys with the fastenings and Brienne resists the instinct to kick her away. She thinks she ought to tell the girl to move, but… Brienne looks down at her, at her small gap toothed smile when she reaches out and flicks the leather strap of Oathkeeper’s handle, and her throat grows tight, an inexplicable warmth settling in her belly, a longing she doesn’t think about aching in her chest.

Oathkeeper is in the middle of this small circle of women, set down on a piece of fabric Brienne had spread to keep it from the ground. None of the six women around her had wanted to attempt to lift it, each demuring they knew they were unworthy, insisting they only wished to see. It reminds Brienne of herself, and it makes her sad. It is such a stark contrast to many of the men she has met on the road, demanding their right to try, that she does attempt to encourage each woman and girl to give it a go.

But the words are awkward in her mouth, her tongue heavy and dry, and each woman only laughs, looks a little longingly at Oathkeeper before waving her offer away as a kindness.

They speak, these ladies, though Brienne feels dazed following the conversation. She recognizes their faces: how they had all ended up in this same tavern, Brienne cannot begin to guess. They are a handful of many in the moons since she departed King’s Landing, even in the weeks since Hyle had joined them. She had helped each of them as best she could: had retrieved for them lost goods from thieves, or fended off attackers and invaders, or escorted them safely home when they were hurt and weak from some event they'd not tell her.

The little girl and her mother are perhaps the only two new to her. The mother runs this tavern after the passing of her husband, who had been called to serve in the war and died in his first skirmish. Annie is round faced as her daughter, ruddy cheeks and eyes somehow both bright and sad. But she had looked over Brienne when they arrived, and sighed happily. “So the lasses spoke true. A lady wielding Mjolnir. Join us, my lady. You and your men.”

Brienne had spluttered, “They are _not_ _my_ —”

But Hyle had laughed, though Brienne thought there was something mean beneath it. Pod only grinned, placid and reassuring as ever, and Brienne had found herself summarily swept up into this group of women. They had somehow, smoothly and without Brienne seeing how, rebuffed from the circle both Hyle and Pod, who have since sequestered themselves by the fire after being handed flagons from Annie.

“What do you go as, Lady Brienne?” one of the young women asks cheerfully. Brienne thinks her name is Jalyn. “My uncle told me Ser Arthur Dayne was known as the Sword of the Morning —”

“That was after Mjolnir left him,” her friend, Vyx, interrupts. A touch disdainful, Brienne thinks, though she is correct. “He was just Ser Arthur with Mjolnir.”

“Lady Brienne ought to have a name,” insists Jalyn, unbothered. “Are there any you already have, my lady?”

Brienne’s voice leaves her. None are suitable. _Brienne the Beauty. Kingslayer’s Whore_. The snide turn in the voices of those who level them against her. Her stomach roils.

She remembers, then, _Brienne the Blue_. Once upon a time. An honourable title, lost to her, alongside Renly. The ache of grief is gentler now than it had been. Still, her throat goes a little tight.

“The Maid of Tarth,” Hyle calls as Brienne’s silence extends.

Annie looks over her shoulder at him, eyes narrowed before she turns back to study Brienne’s face. For her part, Brienne… She doesn’t know what she thinks of that moniker. Better than the rest, she supposes, though she thinks there may be mockery there, too. It itches up her spine, and she searches the faces of the women around her for any signs of cruelty or jest. But they all only look… open to her. And grateful. It makes her eyes burn, and she blinks furiously, embarrassed.

Vyx says after a moment, lofty, “The Worthy Maid, then. Evokes the Maiden, too. The knight’s vows — they call for protection of women in the Maiden’s name. You’re near enough a knight, Lady Brienne.”

“Ser Brienne,” the little girl pipes up from her knee and Brienne’s face heats, her heart swells and her eyes prickle anew. An impossible dream — Jaime had mocked her for it once, before they better knew one another, and she had tamped down on it since. It fills her now, though, like it had only been waiting for her to give it the chance.

Brienne looks at the little girl, her face bright and awed, her two front teeth missing, and Brienne aches to assure the girl it is possible. Maybe — maybe it is, somehow. After all she has Oathkeeper and that had never before been —

Interrupting her thoughts, Jalyn says gently to the girl, “The men won’t allow a woman titled ser.” And Brienne’s heart clenches. She looks away from the little girl to the floor. From the corner of her eye, Oathkeeper seems to glow in the faint firelight, and its presence in the back of her mind murmurs gently.

Jalyn continues, “But knights have done little for the likes of us. More a danger, truly. Lady Brienne is better than a knight. And the Worthy Maid is a better title besides.”

“Better than a knighthood,” Annie agrees. Brienne tips her face up, forces a small smile, and inclines her head. She needn’t decide whether she likes the name or not. It won’t travel. Bluster spoken in the quiet of the night when harsh realities of daylight seem distant. It hurts her only a little to pretend it might persist beyond these walls.

* * *

Bronn mutters something in his sleep which sounds suspiciously like, “Harder, love. Fuck — _yes_ ,” followed by a series of heavy breaths, and it’s the last Jaime can take.

As quietly as he can, because Bronn attains new levels of insufferability with lack of sleep, he rises, takes himself to the ship’s deck. It’s quiet tonight, the sky clear and the waters calm. They ought to reach Dorne soon, and he’ll feel better, he’s sure, when he can see Myrcella.

He tells himself again (and again, and again, and again) that it was right to leave. There is little he can do on Cersei’s behalf during her trial, disgraced in the court as he is and given the tenor of the charges against her. Not that she had wanted him.

_They will know if you stay_.

An inane argument he has yet to win. But the threat to their daughter… If true, then Myrcella has need of him. And he is certain he can actually help her.

It is quiet on the deck. He sees the movement of a few deck hands; soft murmurs of others just out of sight. The water slaps at the sides of the ship, the gentle creak of the wood all around him the only other sound. Almost lonely. He lingers, leaning beside the entrance to the crew quarters, letting his eyes adjust fully.

The situation with Dorne is wrong, somehow. With everything he knows of the Martells, he struggles to understand why they might act like this; that they do anything like this at all. The threat, too, is such a vague thing. He thinks of Elia. Sweet in her bearing, but with steel when she had need of it. Oberyn, who seemed to never hide anything about himself. What he knows of Doran indicates a cautious, calculating man. Slow, then subtle in action. Why, then, would they threaten Myrcella in a way which might go unrecognized? Or misunderstood?

Or worse, risk the wrath of the Throne?

He concedes that to play on Cersei’s paranoia is increasingly a sure thing. But, even so. How could they be certain of a correspondingly subtle response?

Jaime passes his hand down his face, then eases away from the wall.

Cersei’s fear, her anger, her blame… His desire to solve it, make it better, is reflexive. Though she was also right; he never had. Still he tries. If he manages it, if he can solve but one problem for her, maybe then... Maybe then...

He makes his way to the bow, leans his elbows on the side and only then realizes he had forgotten to take his hand. A quick glance confirms again a skeleton crew, none paying him any mind, and so he only wraps more tightly the cloth on his stump, and looks out to sea. The water is dark, impenetrable, but the ripples on its surface are gentle, teasing a wrinkling reflection of the serene moon. He tips his head up, watches the moon. Bright, round and full. Touching everything with a cold white, bringing out a blue tinge to the expanse of the sky with its cast of faraway and sparkling stars.

He is resolved, the further he gets from King’s Landing, that on his return he might seek to be closer to Tommen. The Faith be damned, as they try to separate them. And Cersei… She, too, somehow seems to increase the distance. He can’t quite figure how she manages it, but when he returns, he will. And with Myrcella, too, if he can manage it.

He _must_ manage it.

Of a sudden, he remembers Tarth. It was a damnable, inexplicable thing, the way the tightness in his chest had eased upon seeing it; had triggered some strong pull in his stomach. He had never been, should not feel so strongly the desire to go. What is some small, unimportant island to all the mainland has to offer?

_All the mainland has to offer,_ he scoffs. He thinks of Cersei. Of the indignities heaped upon her to face lies and rumours because she had been born not a man, but a woman in a world filled with only derision and perversion, wielded by these men of the Faith in the name of their gods.

Myrcella. He must focus on Myrcella. He will bring her home, and then… And then he will see about the rest.

* * *

The dream is upon her as soon as she falls asleep.

Brienne stands on the battlements. In the way of dreams, she knows this is King’s Landing. The Red Keep. Looking out to Blackwater Bay, towards the Narrow Sea. The clouds are pregnant on the horizon, though they are not hers, and only with deep familiarity does she recognize the low growl not as that of a storm but as a distant echo of roaring.

Dragons burst from the clouds. Three beasts whose size defy reason, and she trembles when they roar again. She knows they belong to Daenerys Targaryen. It is impossible to see, but she knows the Dragon Queen rides one of them. Brienne’s heart pounds in her chest, her hands shake. They draw closer at impossible speeds — she takes an instinctive step back —

She is in the Red Keep, a room she knows to be Cersei’s solar, though she has never been. Cersei stands, staring out a window with a goblet in hand. Brienne opens her mouth — means to entreat Cersei: if only she ring the bells, the dragons would _stop_. The people would be saved — _the people would be saved_.

No sound leaves her throat, Cersei hears nothing from her. But she does another. At the periphery of Brienne’s sight, outside of her hearing, someone speaks and Cersei turns her head. Brienne spins to see —

She stands on the hills outside the city, no bells ring and she can only watch as the dragons swoop low over the battlements. There is a beat, as though the entire world holds its breath, then the air is sucked clean from her lungs as the first explosion goes.

She sees it — moments before the sound hits her ears, the ground trembles under her feet and does not stop. It is impossible to see where, exactly, it starts, but soon the entire city is flames and smoke and she must be too far to hear it but she swears there are screams and wails and then a horrible near-silence, only the ongoing crackle of fire as it consumes, the hush of smoke as it spreads, and the overwhelming knowledge that all is lost.

King’s Landing falls.

Brienne wakes.


	2. chapter one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ready our bags, Podrick,” Brienne said. The look he turned on her was more steady then, and grateful. Pod rose, inclining his head to Hyle and left.
> 
> “Remember what I told you of the Dragon Queen,” Hyle said, keeping his voice low. “She fancies herself a saviour. Treat her like a gift from the gods and she may spare you.”
> 
> Brienne scoffed. She knew gifts from the gods. A person could not be one.
> 
> Jaime came to mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiiiiii! Picture me, waving sheepishly from beneath my bangs. Here's chapter one! Late. Very late. Later than I'd intended. By, like, a lot. There were some lockdown related stressors, which I'm sure is a known entity to many, but mostly Brienne and I did not see eye to eye for quite some time, and then I did not see eye to eye with me for quite some time. Finally, after long hours and much squabbling, all relevant parties were able to get it together, and voila! A result! Only ~3 months later than planned! I am sorry.
> 
> But happily (!) I did work on chapters 2 and 3 around the same time, and they are very nearly there in terms of final edits, so look for chapter two within the week; chapter three a week or so after that. Then (after a brief break in around the time of the JB fic exchange so I can read all the excellent things people write...!!) I expect to settle into a more regular routine as chapters 4 through 8 are in various states of completion, and the rest is plotted out.
> 
> My endless thanks to auntie_social for not only betaing the hell out of this version, but also the preceding _three_ (sorry!) and for wandering with me into the many, many weeds as I tried to figure out what was wrong, always encouraging and always ready to share her brain and respond with insights and good cheer. And also - for making me laugh out loud with her comments more than once. You star ♥!
> 
> And as always, my thanks to C, who did some spot-reading of this beast, and also for patiently listening to me angst and flap about this chapter over video chat and text more than once, and for being as encouraging and bolstering and shippy as ever ♥!
> 
> I also wanted to say thank you so much to everyone who has so far commented, kudos'd, mentioned this fic to me, or engaged with any of my posts about it on tumblr. It means so much to me, truly, particularly in those tricksy months, and I am really so grateful ♥  
> 
> 
> A touch of housekeeping: flagging that the tags have been updated to include action & romance, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, and grief-mourning. Given the state of things, if anyone wants to know upfront about the particulars/an outline of the h/c and grief-mourning, feel free to send me an ask or dm on tumblr and I'll be happy to answer ♥ Please do mind chapter warnings and look after yourself first ♥
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: reference to past sexual harassment, and some violence which is mostly more in line with Thor: Ragnarok levels than GOT/ASOIAF.
> 
> If anyone has strong feelings about dragons and/or Maidenpool... liberties are taken herein by me.
> 
> Chapter subtitle from Soldier by Fleurie  
> 
> 
> And since it’s been a minute: a reminder that we last left Brienne having woken from a dream wherein King’s Landing is destroyed as she watches from afar.

_head in the dust, feet in the fire/ labour on that midnight wire/ head down till the work is done  
_ _(soldier keep on marching on)_

Gasping, Brienne jolted awake. Her gorge rose, she clamped her mouth tight and struggled to catch her breath. The explosions, the screaming, played over and over in her ears, the smoke from the low cook fire filling her nose, setting her heart to pounding, and she tried to remind herself — _Only a dream, only a dream, only a dream_ —

She shuddered against heaving, forced her thoughts to training stances. It didn’t always work, she had lost count of the number of times she’d had to throw off her blankets and stagger to the woods to retch, but tonight, thank the Seven, it did. After long minutes, she saw Ser Goodwin in her mind’s eye clearly, his familiar fond and faintly frowning face, and before a damnable longing for home might take root, Brienne sat up.

Podrick sat on the log beside her, waiting. She took a moment to wipe impatiently at her eyes — for all the tears she had shed over the nightmare, any would think it some past experience she was reliving each night rather than…

Rather than a…

The moon had turned half a dozen times since first she had the dream, and she had been visited by it countless times since. Podrick had whispered the word _vision_ to her a sennight after that first. Brienne had steadfastly denied it, though it was increasingly difficult to insist it was only a nightmare. To her knowledge though, the legends around Oathkeeper and Ser Thor had never described visions. She wished, not for the first time, that she might somehow access the library at Evenfall Hall. She could check again the texts she studied as a girl, and prove to herself once and for all this was merely some concoction of her mind.

A concoction of terror and death the likes of which she had never known. Which left her chest tight with grief, and somehow regret churning in her stomach. Regret for something that had never happened. May never, gods willing, happen. Yet. The responsibility still sat ill on her shoulders. Her eyes prickled again — _the whole city_ — she squeezed her eyelids shut, drawing a shuddering breath as quietly as she could, pressing her face into her sleeve when her tears again slipped free.

Podrick waited patiently as he always did, and when Brienne finally lifted her face, he pressed a cup into her hand. She glanced at him, nodded her thanks, and swallowed down the cool water.

It was some minor blessing that Hyle had yet to witness this. She risked a glance at him, across the fire from her, where he lay with his back to her, snoring softly still. She remained certain Oathkeeper was not the cause of the nightmares, and yet still she felt passingly grateful to Oathkeeper that the nightmare only came to her when Podrick was on watch. He was well familiar with it now, and had woken from his own versions, something his mind had built from her descriptions.

Shame burned her chest to admit it even within the privacy of her own mind, but she felt less lonely those handful of times Podrick woke with a gasp and whispered wretchedly of the fall of the capital. But she also felt guilty he suffered and she made sure to fetch him water, pass him a linen for his eyes, and take more rest, each time.

When Brienne looked back at Pod now, he was watching her warily. His face was tight in the way she learned meant he had something he wanted to say but was nervy of her response. Brienne sighed. Fearing and feeling every action a misstep, she did not always know how best to care for Pod, only just shy of manhood. He was sweet, and as true a companion as she might have wished for, had she thought to wish for such a thing.

She might not have; Jaime had, though. _Jaime_.

Brienne shook her head to clear it of the smoke, and of Jaime, and tempered her voice, whispered, “Out with it.”

Pod breathed out heavily. “Are you… defying the gods? By ignoring the portents in this dream?”

The thought had occurred to her, but the gods would have to bloody wait, if they were the ones who sent it. She set her jaw. “I swore an oath —”

“I know.” It was rare for Podrick to interrupt her, though his tone hadn’t been harsh. Brienne studied him more closely as he winced an apology. There was strain to him. Had it been there in him long? Or was it dogging him just tonight? She felt a tremble of guilt turning her stomach, and decided to pay closer mind. He continued, “But is Oathkeeper not also an oath unto itself? Or… a bargain, perhaps, with the gods?”

Brienne shifted uncomfortably. The question had haunted her almost from the first: how free was Oathkeeper to choose its wielder? She still feared that Oathkeeper would realize its mistake in its choice, but the idea of a bargain between she and Oathkeeper was far more agreeable than the idea that the gods knew her…

If the gods were involved, Brienne shuddered to think what she could possibly begin to expect, and what they might mean to expect from her.

This latter, perhaps…

She looked over her shoulder at Oathkeeper, resting as it always did when she slept, beside the rolled tunic she used as a pillow. Her hand tightened around the cup. It could be Oathkeeper made a lightning rod of her in more ways than one.

“If anything,” Brienne said slowly. “My bargain is with Oathkeeper.”

Podrick looked unconvinced. “It seems the gods are asking for you. Is it wise to put them off?”

“Lady Sansa and Lady Arya have been missing for nearly two years.” There was an ominous crack from the cup, and Brienne forced her hold loose, set it aside. “We should perhaps have gone to the Vale sooner. Their aunt may now be dead, but there is nothing to say they did not… I cannot abandon hope for them now. I cannot break my oath. Or my promise to —”

She cut herself off, clearing her throat. Had become uncomfortably aware of how often she mentioned Jaime after a caustic comment Hyle had made several moons ago. She tried now not to say anything at all any longer, but Podrick had a certain look he would give her, like he knew who she thought of, and why.

 _But you love him_.

He was giving it to her now, quietly understanding, and embarrassment squirmed in her stomach, prickled heat in her cheeks.

“I only wonder,” Pod said slowly, his voice quiet enough Brienne had to lean to catch each word. “Whether your… might it not be somehow related to your oath to Lady Catelyn, your promise to Ser Jaime? Oathkeeper chose you, when you were, were already sworn.”

For the span of a breath, Brienne could not think. Could her oath and the dream be somehow interconnected? It was beyond her: how the protection of two girls — one a woman now, the other nearly — might relate to the destruction of a city but… What if it were? Oathkeeper was a relic of the gods, to be sure. Ser Thor had used it to protect all peoples of Westeros; Brienne had taken its choice as, as a blessing. One which, despite her continued dubiety, was confirmed each day it remained with her.

But it did gnaw at her in the quiet moments: Oathkeeper could surely not solely serve the needs of one House, two people.

But what was she to do? How might she investigate a _dream_? There were only two identifiable people in her dream besides herself. Was she to return to King’s Landing to request audience with the Queen Regent to ask under what circumstances she might surrender? Ask if she might have designs on wildfire, as with each repetition of the nightmare, Brienne grew only more certain that the flames consuming the city were not those of the dragons alone: green flames she had never witnessed mixing with the rising oranges and reds. And that then, too, was proof it was some fabrication of her own mind, built up from Jaime’s stories. No, she could not go to King’s Landing. She could not yet return.

 _Certainly not return a failure_ , a voice whispered in her mind. _Tell Jaime you have accomplished naught, but instead pursue answers for a dream_.

_I dreamed of you._

The mystery person in Cersei’s solar haunted her, too. Easier to name them a spectre of her mind, along with the rest, than contend with the idea it might be —

Brienne swallowed thickly, pushed the thought away. If not Cersei and King’s Landing, then there was only Daenerys. Was she to travel to Essos, to the Dragon Queen? Impossible. It was too far away, would take her too far from her course.

Ser Thor had been a god, and if not fully, then a demigod at least. The Warrior’s son. Brienne was only one woman, and entirely human. No weapon or god could demand of her that she seek to protect an entire city. There were those who might — _Jaime had protected an entire city_ — but Brienne was only herself.

“No,” Brienne finally said. “We make for the Vale.”

* * *

She'd hoped not to find herself here again, at least not while Lord Tarly still kept it, but reaching Maidenpool had been some relief. The rooms they'd found were moderately nicer than her last stay, too. The door closed behind Podrick as he left, and Brienne took full advantage of the first moment of solitude and quiet. She lay back, the roughspun wool of the inn’s blankets itching at her neck, the straw bed near as hard as the ground they’d been sleeping on, and yet and still, she breathed out a sigh.

She couldn’t remember when last they took shelter at an inn. It had to be three moons at least. Hyle charged her with being stingy, and maybe she was: she still had plenty of coin left from that which Jaime gave her. The longer their search went, though, the more Brienne felt guilty enjoying comforts while the Stark girls…

She prayed they were comfortable, wherever they were. Safe in beds, with roofs over their heads.

Her mind filled with images of them anything but: curled under thin blankets on wet rolls, shivering, afraid and alone, surrounded by threats Brienne could only too easily imagine. She rolled to her side and curled in on herself, and offered a prayer to the Mother to watch over them. Firelight turned Oathkeeper’s silver to a soothing, gentle gold. Jaime had called the younger Stark feral. Perhaps Arya might better receive Frigga's guidance, the battle-ready face of the Mother, and prayed to her, too.

She watched Oathkeeper, perched carefully on the rickety table beside her bed where she would easily reach it. It was foolish to sleep under the sky when Maidenpool had many inns available, she told herself, even if Randyll Tarly had made plain his unwelcome. And Podrick would be better rested from sleep on a bed. On the morrow, they would take a ship to Gulltown, and then begin the trek up to the Eyrie. If neither Lady Sansa nor Lady Arya was there… The possibility was heavy as stone in her belly, and her mind was clouded of what to do next. Winterfell was an option, but should a long-thought-dead Stark have returned to Winterfell, surely word would spread…

A knock at the door. Brienne sat up. It was another luxury she felt she ill-deserved but much needed: a private bath. “Come,” she said.

The door opened not to one of the inn’s workers but to Hyle. He spared a moment to pass his eyes over her sitting on the bed, and Brienne stood quickly, moved towards the fire. The sneer was a flash on his mouth, but she didn’t miss it.

“What is it?” she asked.

He grinned. “You’ll not guess the news.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. They asked for news of the realm when they passed through villages, few things might surprise her. “Unless Lady Sansa has appeared in the inn below…”

“No. But another woman of interest to you,” he said.

Brienne gasped. “Arya?”

Hyle snorted. “No. That would be a pretty gift for us. Or a plain one, if the descriptions of the youngest Stark girl are to be believed.”

Brienne scowled. “What woman?”

“Ah.” He smiled. “The Dragon Queen has landed in Westeros. Daenerys Targaryen is in Gulltown.”

* * *

“A fool’s errand,” Hyle muttered for what Brienne thought had to have been the tenth time that morning. She had not told him the whole of it; indeed, really only that she had a dream which may be prophecy and had need to speak with Daenerys Targaryen. He was not accompanying them to see the Dragon Queen, but seemed to think if only he badgered her enough before she left that she might change her mind.

More fool him.

Possibly more fool her. Even now, she had doubts. But it ought only take a few hours, possibly even less. She would speak with Daenerys Targaryen. Share her dream. The Queen would dismiss her concerns as foolish imaginings, and Brienne would leave, putting her own gnawing worries to bed. Then she and Podrick would make for the Eyrie, catching up with Hyle at the Bloody Gate when they were able.

She begrudged even those few hours, though. To be set back due to a recurrent _dream_ …

She and Podrick were due the following morning, though they sailed shortly. They sat together, with Hyle, finishing their breakfast. Brienne breathed deep. She had dearly wanted to ignore the news of Daenerys’s arrival, but… It was one thing to ignore the possible portents of the dream when those involved were so far away. But with Daenerys so close, she felt duty bound to try. And so the hurried missive she had sent the afternoon before had been answered late last night. Brienne looked at her bowl: she had less eaten her food than shoveled it around.

Oathkeeper offered a bolstering sound from her hip, and Brienne reached automatically to stroke her knuckles across its head.

Hyle huffed out a breath as Brienne kept her silence. He said, “I will ask after Sansa Stark in town as we discussed, and should your little audience go poorly, I will continue to seek her—”

“And if you should find,” Brienne said quickly, then stopped, stomach churning. The possibility of Hyle continuing the search without her… there was no reason he would, of course. Nothing would happen: Daenerys might consider herself a queen, she may have a reputation which made Brienne wary, but she ultimately had little power in Westeros, and Brienne had Oathkeeper. Even still, Brienne had tried to remind herself that Oathkeeper did not make its wielder any less mortal. All those chosen before her had eventually died, most with Oathkeeper at their side. And so, she and Hyle had discussed the possibility. She swallowed and tried again, more evenly, “Should you find her, you must —”

“Send her to safety, yes,” Hyle said irritably.

“Tarth.” She hadn’t forewarned her father, but he would never send them away, and it would be a secure place for Sansa to make her decisions.

Hyle looked sour. “Fine, my lady. Tarth. I trust your father will recompense me.”

That — that was what made Brienne nervous. Perhaps she ought to have accepted his offer to accompany them to the audience. If something were to happen, and Hyle went on alone to find Sansa, would she be safe with him? He seemed… not remorseful of the wager, but he claimed to have learned from it.

 _Leave your chamber door unbarred tonight_ …

Brienne shivered, thought it more likely he learned from getting caught. And Sansa Stark — also heir, now, to her House… young and frightened and alone. Brienne smoothed her hands across her thighs.

It was unlikely this contingency was needed, of course. The audience was a perfunctory thing to ease her mind. There was nothing which might go wrong in speaking.

But if Hyle _did_ go on and he _did_ manage to find Sansa, _and_ convince her to trust him, _and_ treat her honourably, _and_ then get her safely away to Tarth, Brienne was certain her father would give him something. Tarth was not the wealthiest, but they had some stores.

Failing that…

Jaime.

Jaime would grant her more funds to satisfy Hyle. She did not want to have to ask, but if it came to it…

Though if Hyle were forced to go on without her, what position would she be in to ask Jaime anything?

Hyle pulled her from her thoughts, saying, “And you, Brienne.” He didn’t meet her eyes, looking past her shoulder. “Should you survive this folly, I urge you reconsider my offer.”

 _No_. She thought it, but did not say it, nodding stiffly instead. This seemed to satisfy him, and he grinned, looking at Podrick. She had never spoken with Pod about Hyle, but she had the impression Pod was wary of him.

When Hyle rubbed his hand through Pod’s hair as though he were a small child and not a man nearly grown, Pod winced, and Brienne in sympathy. Hypocrite. Hyle had criticized _her_ for _coddling_ Podrick.

“Remember your role,” Hyle said, and Pod leaned back in his seat, far enough to be out of Hyle’s reach.

“I will,” he replied, with barely a flickered glance Brienne’s way. She pursed her lips.

“Ready our bags, Podrick,” she said. The look he turned on her was more steady then, and grateful. He rose, inclining his head to Hyle and left.

“Remember what I told you of the Dragon Queen,” Hyle said, keeping his voice low. “She fancies herself a saviour. Treat her like a gift from the gods and she may spare you.”

Brienne scoffed. She knew gifts from the gods. A person could not be one.

Jaime came to mind. Golden hair and golden skin, green eyes blazing and perfect smile sharp. She sometimes thought her memory must be wrong, exaggerated: she might think she could recall each line and curve of his face, but no man could be so beautiful, surely. She had dreamt, once, of tracing his face with the tips of her fingers… in her dream she had been bold: touching his body, too. It made her flush to think of it, but she trusted better her memories of his body. His Kingsguard uniform had accentuated his shoulders, his waist. How assuredly he had stridden, how tall he had stood, beside her, urging her to take up Oathkeeper. Not matching her height, but in her mind, he almost seemed it. Then there was the lithe, predatory way he sometimes moved, even when in chains; the way he had leapt between her and the bear, had kicked her feet out from under her, the weight of him straddling her hips, trying to protect her — That memory came to her then, the one she shied from, tried to deny: how he had been when he came through the steam, sick and injured and yet still somehow half a —

 _Stop_.

She had no time for this. And Jaime was no gift. Certainly not for her. He may have been moulded from the Warrior, commanding her attention whatever he did, but —

Her cheeks prickled with heat and she forced the thoughts from her mind. She met Hyle’s look. “Daenerys Targaryen is only human.”

“So are you, Brienne,” he said. She shifted uncomfortably. “Do not forget it because you carry a fancy hammer.”

Brienne stiffened, narrowing her eyes at him as Oathkeeper protested this, its offense a discordant note in her mind. Hyle rolled his eyes as he stood, and quickly took hold of her hand where it rested by her bowl, bending over it. His lips had only just touched her skin when Brienne yanked her hand back, her face turning hot, anger coiling in her chest.

Hyle misread her. He smirked, then said in what Brienne was certain he thought charming tones, “Perhaps the future holds more of the same, my Lady Brienne.”

Before Brienne could do more than tighten her hand to a fist, Hyle strode away, called “Do try to stay alive,” and the door was swinging shut behind him.

Brienne shook her hand out, wishing the lingering sensation of his mouth gone. An exhausted looking woman, a few years younger than Brienne and hunched over her own bowl of porridge, blinked blearily at her. When Brienne met her eyes, on edge, and defensive, the woman pointed with her spoon after Hyle and said, “You’ll want caution with the likes of him.” Brienne blinked, stunned, then forced herself to frown slightly as the woman went on, her words slightly slurred, “He might seem honest but there’s always something that’ll turn his head. Gods know you deserve better, my lady. A man who might know you.” She paused, tilted her head a little too far and smiled crookedly. “Or a woman, if that’s your way.” The woman’s smile widened, though her expression also went a little distant, a little unfocused. Her eyes dropped closed then, and for a moment, Brienne thought she may have lost consciousness, and wondered what she might do to ensure the woman’s safety as she began to tip perilously to the side —

The woman drew a noisy, deep breath, opened her eyes and dragged herself straight in her seat. She said sincerely, over-enunciating, “I wish happiness on you.”

Brienne stuttered, “And I, you,” lingering only long enough to watch the woman’s smile brighten before she hurried away. As she left, Brienne quietly paid for the woman’s breakfast, and a room for the night should she need it.

Ducking out onto the streets of Maidenpool, Brienne kept her head down. It was still early, but the people were up and about, bustling around her. It wasn’t quite cold enough to warrant the cloak she wore, but it hid Oathkeeper, and she found… Occasionally having it shown openly on her hip seemed to invite unwanted attention. Not that she ever particularly welcomed attention, was subject to it often enough. And her interaction with the woman in the tavern had unsettled her, though in a way which kept some warmth soothing in her chest, and she didn’t want to disrupt it, or look too closely at it. She walked as quickly as she could to catch up with Pod, finding him doing final checks on his horse in silence. Brienne joined him, slipping into the stall with her own, and settling into the familiar routine.

The roar was sudden and so loud it set the beams of the stables trembling around them, her skin crawling as though it vibrated through her. Brienne clapped her hands over her ears to try and block it but it was endless: a sound which made her teeth itch, her guts turn to ice. When at last it stopped, all was still for a beat, the world holding its breath, before the frightened shouts started up, the horses in their stalls trembling, their ears and eyes flicking violently.

Stood in the stable hall, she had just cinched Oathkeeper into her saddle, but as her horse snorted her anxiety in her stall, Brienne threw her hand out, calling Oathkeeper back. It shuddered, then slipped up, out of its clasp and into her hand, its song of greeting a fortifying contrast to the mayhem outside. Brienne reached out with her free hand, took gentle hold of her horse’s bridle and whispered soothingly. It did little to help; a brave horse in their travels but that roar… Brienne still felt shaky herself in the wake of it. She released the bridle, flexed her hand around Oathkeeper’s handle and looked for Pod. A couple of stalls down, he was holding the nose of his horse, stroking down between its eyes, murmuring quietly. A thread of pride wove itself through her anxiety as she watched him, but she feared there wasn’t time.

“Pod,” Brienne called and without hesitation, he was beside her. “Let’s go.”

The streets of Maidenpool were packed with people, most scarpering back into the city proper, but some chasing the same path as she and Podrick towards the gates. Navigating through that tide of people, trying best not to hinder or hurt anyone, Brienne was almost grateful Lord Tarly had denied them board as it would have taken them thrice as long were they in the keep.

A young man tripped before her, and Brienne said only, “Podrick,” and in an instant Pod was at the back of the man, turning people to either side so he would not get trampled as Brienne helped him to his feet. He glanced at her nervously then disappeared into the flow. With a tap to Pod’s shoulder, they were off again, pushing carefully through.

Spilling through the city gates where at last the stream of people had thinned, they together stumbled to a stop. A few stragglers pushed past and Brienne ignored them, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Once outside the city proper and the middling city sprawl, Maidenpool was backed by the Bay of Crabs. They could hear the thriving dockyard from their rooms, the shouts of the fishmongers waking them that morning. But on this side, it was surrounded by long stretches of farm and pasture land, on which a skirmish was taking place. They had wound their way through the farmlands on their way into the city, Hyle babbling about tavern food and ale and biting his tongue against mention of women while Brienne tried her best to ignore him, and now those selfsame roads were cut off by long swaths of fire, incinerating food the people could ill afford to lose.

And it was a foolish, inexplicable tactic, if tactic it was, to set the field of battle aflame. She would never claim military experience but in the moons she had been gone from King’s Landing, she had come across a number — the horrifying outcome of too many — and this… this made little sense. The men on both sides seemed inconvenienced by it — and the smallfolk. “Bloody hells,” she whispered. Smallfolk were trying to put it out, a distance away from where the soldiers clashed, and —

A shadow fell across the field in the distance, too large and too swift to be cloud cover. Brienne looked up.

It was some horrible mimicry of her nightmare.

The beast was enormous, even far up in the sky. It stole her breath, watching it arc smoothly down towards the fighters, open its maw and —

“ _Gods be good!_ ”

The flames poured out, leaving a stream of fire in its wake. Smoke billowed up, obscured and filled the air, but not before Brienne saw the devastation wrought. Where once men had stood, piles of ash dispersed into the air, whatever crops had been planted were left to cinder. Curls of flame scattered outward, catching on whatever might light.

Finding the dragon again, it completed its run and turned high, up into the sky, vanished amongst the clouds.

Brienne drew a halting breath, feeling ill. Gods. She could not deny it had been somehow beautiful. As beautiful as it was terrifying. The scales shimmering in motion over the enormous muscles, its wings somehow almost delicate in flight. A creature lifted straight from legend and set free against an expansive sky. She might see a kindred spirit to the mythical hammer on her hip, singing still, but for the great, seething flames the dragon had unleashed. Witnessing it in her dreams had been bad enough; up close… Brienne shuddered, her knees felt weak. Jaime was in her mind, too, speaking of Aerys’ fire, and all the things he had done with it — _cooked him in his armour_ — The chill that raced down her spine bade her stay far from the dragon’s breath.

Pod was panting beside her — a disjointed rhythm that did not match what she knew he sounded like from exertion, and she wanted to distract him. “I see only Tarly standards and — I would guess Targaryen?” she said. She knew, of course. Had spent hours in Evenfall’s library as a girl, poured over books of shields and flags in those rare afternoons Roelle had been required elsewhere. But Podrick had a particular interest in them, too. Spoke readily of crests and their meanings.

When he did not respond, she said firmly, “Podrick.”

“Yes, m-my lady,” he managed. Then drew a thin breath. “I recognize the Tarly banner as well.” He drew his shoulders back, straightening his spine. “Y-yes. From what I — from what Lord Tyrion showed me, that is the Targaryen flag. I can’t imagine any other watched over by a dragon.”

From their vantage point, it looked to be a well-matched skirmish between the men, perhaps a dozen soldiers on each side. Excepting the fucking dragon supporting the Targaryen troops. Brienne could not imagine how the engagement had begun, nor why there were Targaryens here at all, but more pressing was that she could not see where the dragon had gone.

“Do you mean to-to get involved?”

Brienne looked back at Podrick. He was scared, that much was plain. But so was she. And there was a determined lift to his chin regardless, filling her with pride. She shook her head. “No. We’ve no business interceding on behalf of either. Perhaps if the smallfolk —”

Her words died on her tongue. As though her words had initiated the action, one of the smallfolk moved towards the battle. They were ducking, clearly trying to see something in the midst, and Brienne's hands clenched in frustration — _get away, you fool_ — when a Tarly soldier took notice of them and —

"No," she growled. The Tarly soldier grabbed the person by the scruff of the neck and shoved them into an approaching Targaryen. She hissed out a breath, feeling awkward in her thanks that the Targaryen soldier had used his shield to push the person aside rather than impale them. But the gratitude was short lived as the original Tarly shouted something, gesturing to his compatriots, and the lot of them began a slow move back towards where the rest of the small folk were still working to put out the fires.

Brienne took off running, trusting Pod to follow.

“No deaths,” she said, when his foot falls caught up with her. “Not if we can help it.”

Pod’s answer was breathless but firm, “Yes, my lady.”

Circling around the tail of the fire, Brienne threw Oathkeeper into the mix ahead of her. She had angled it low, and Oathkeeper sailed true, trailing a song through her mind as it flew, crashing into the back of the knees of the first soldier it met before carrying blithely onwards to the main skirmish ahead.

For all the circumstances were dire, Brienne’s heart matched Oathkeeper’s melody to be back in a fight. Nothing made so much sense as when she was in battle, and so little had made sense to her in many moons. Mjolnir’s legends spoke of granting unbelievable strength to its bearers, and while she did not have that, she had learned better how best to capitalize on the strength she did have. Brienne brought her sword up, meeting the first man — a Tarly. Shoving back against the man’s blade with her own, Brienne took advantage of his unbalance to plant her foot in the middle of his chest and pushed hard so he stumbled back, toppling three other men. She met two more, each clash of the blade set her blood surging, and she relished as each soldier toppled into the tangled pile, struggling to extricate themselves from one another.

Panting, she called on it then, the storm. She was a woman of the Stormlands and the storm had always been home. Brienne breathed deep as the air around her crackled with it, and she leaned into its might.

Thunder rumbled from deep in her gut, rolling through her bones and powering along her limbs. The lightning flashed in her mind’s eye, seemed to chase through her veins, bolts escaping to dance across her skin —

Opening her eyes as the men tried to get back up, Brienne commanded, “To me,” and as one they looked at her in time to witness her call a bolt to spear the dirt beside her. As always, that first surge set her skin to goose flesh, an expansive sense of joy swelling in her chest, and she opened her mouth to taste the storm on her tongue, swallowing the lightning lingering on the air so it joined the growl of thunder still rolling in her belly.

She looked down again at the men. “Your battle is done. Stay down.”

They did.

Sheathing her sword, Brienne threw her hand up to call Oathkeeper back as she dashed for the main battle. Aware of the song of Oathkeeper’s arc as it rose and flew back to her, plowing through more soldiers and knocking them off their feet, it landed softly in her palm just as she reached the last men standing. Three surrounded her immediately — a quick check showed two Targaryen, one Tarly — she wielded Oathkeeper carefully: utilizing Oathkeeper’s strength to send one falling head over arse, sweeping the feet out from under the other and dropping Oathkeeper on his chest so he lay flat, pinned beneath. When she looked down on him, he gasped up at her that he would stay down, and so with a nod, she called Oathkeeper back to her.

Only one man remained then, a Targaryen soldier, facing her. He bore a shield, and, showing his teeth, the tell-tale broad smile that she had seen on overconfident men countless times. Even before Oathkeeper, she had knocked men like him into the dust, and with Oathkeeper now, humming battle in her mind to match the thrum of her blood, he would be no challenge. She hefted Oathkeeper, the man hit the side of his shield with his blade —

The dragon roared, and Brienne’s head snapped up. She couldn’t see the creature, but a quick glance showed the smallfolk were still nearby, still too close, foolish, brave people, standing by their livelihoods in the midst of this...

Brienne glanced again at the man advancing, and let the lightning dance on her skin. She raised Oathkeeper, sent the lightning crackling across its surface.

“Stop,” she said. “This is not worth your life.”

His smile only widened. Brienne sighed. Called down a warning bolt to strike in his path, but the fool seemed to anticipate it, throwing his shield beneath it and —

Her lightning bounced off the shield, lancing past them and Brienne spun, her stomach lurching as she followed its trajectory, relieved as it hit a low mount of dirt, sending more dust and soil into the air.

Never had that happened before; her lightning had only ever struck true. She looked back at the man: he had been unprepared for the strength of the bolt, whatever else he might have expected, and it had knocked him flat. He was regaining his feet, but another roar sounded, seeming to set the air itself to shudder, and Brienne lunged forward, brought Oathkeeper to bear on the shield. That did it: a firm dent which sent the man to his knees. “Do not rise,” she commanded, and turned to track the dragon.

It swept past just as she turned, its low flight stirring up the flames it had already set, sending smoke and ash rolling across the fields. From the clouds already gathered, she called down the rain. It wasn’t enough. To put out the fires, to dampen the smoke and clear the air, she would need a true downpour. She couldn’t — until the dragon was dealt with, she couldn’t risk making battle so near impossible under torrential rains, and the more she called, the more cover she gave the dragon, watching it vanish once again into the rolling clouds. She turned instead to the smallfolk, and before she had taken even one step, Podrick was beside her. She wanted to reach for him in relief, but nodded instead, her hand tightening on Oathkeeper’s handle, Oathkeeper offering a low murmur of encouragement.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, looking him over for obvious injury. He appeared fine: dirt and ash smudged his chestplate and there was a streak of blood on his cheek that looked to be someone else’s.

Pod shook his head. “No, my lady. And you?”

He always asked, and it always made her chest ache. “I’m fine.” When he nodded in relief, she cleared her throat and looked away. “Will you see to the smallfolk? Get them away, back behind the city walls, if you can. I’ll deal with the dragon.”

Podrick looked like he might argue, then his lips thinned and he nodded. “Yes, my lady,” he said. They watched one another for another beat, before Brienne nodded for him to go. Podrick bit his lip, a habit she thought he may have gotten from her, but then he was off.

Brienne turned back towards where last she had seen the dragon. A shadow caught her eye, and she tipped her head up, watched as it circled. Then it swooped. Her breath caught in her throat, her stomach clenching, as it blew fire across another field, dipping into the flames as the smallfolk wailed.

It burst up, out of the flames, and rose into the sky, and Brienne started running forward. Tracking the dragon as best she could, avoiding the burning and sprinting to meet its shadow racing across the ground. The dragon moved at incredible speeds and already it was nearly above her — Brienne skidded to a halt, braced her feet and hurled Oathkeeper up.

It trailed its song, a renewed battle beat now, resonating the thump of her heart and settling in the pulse of her blood, as it streaked upwards, up and up and up, and just when the dragon was to pass above her, Brienne threw her hand in the air and called Oathkeeper back.

The dragon lurched, squawked. Oathkeeper had caught it, the dragon flailing, screeching as it was dragged back towards the ground. Directly over her head.

Brienne took off at a sprint.

Her armour was heavy, the air burning as she forced it into her lungs. Faster. She had to go faster, get further. Away, out of the way, out of range, she had to _run_ —

The ground heaved, trembled under her feet. Brienne stumbled to a stop, pivoted, kept light on the balls of her feet. If she was not yet out of range of the dragon’s flames, she would need to run again.

The dragon was lost to a brown haze of dust and dirt hurled up when it had crashed into the ground. It mixed with the smoke carried on the breeze, and across the field floated low snarls, the snapping of large jaws and sharp teeth, and Brienne suppressed a shudder down her spine.

She gave herself until the count of thirty to catch her breath. Then she moved forward carefully.

A wind whipped up from the Bay of Crabs. It blew the smoke away and inland, towards the distant trees, clearing the air, but it also stirred sparks and cinders from the flames around them up into the air again. The rain she’d called had tempered some of the vegetation against the sparks for now, but she worried it wouldn’t last long. A cinder caught on her glove and she smacked it out impatiently, her heart pounding as she moved slowly closer. Oathkeeper had pinned the dragon’s wing — the wing furthest from her. The dragon was trying to pull itself free, flopping ineffectually, growling, its enormous claws dragging deep gouges through the dirt, its other wing flapping violently through the air.

She knew nothing of dragons. Her hope was that now it had been brought down, it might flee to safety back with its queen and leave the poor smallfolk of Maidenpool to tend to their losses. It would first need to be released from Oathkeeper's weight.

It was so large.

It dwarfed even the blazing fires near it. Its scales reflected reds and yellows and oranges, and the clench and shift of its muscles were plain to her even from here. A fresh current of air brought with it heat from the fires and smoke to hurt her eyes and dry her throat. Beneath the smoke was something else. Something sweet, like decay.

Brienne breathed out slowly. Rolled her shoulders. Clenched her hands to fists. Forced them loose.

If she wanted it to flee, it need first be freed.

She need free it, for it to flee.

She offered a prayer to the Crone and the Warrior and to Ser Thor himself, if he listened.

She raised her hand and call Oathkeeper back.

Oathkeeper trilled a greeting in her mind. She knew the moment it rose because the dragon flung itself back with a snarl that seemed to trace across the ground. Brienne breathed out a sigh as Oathkeeper’s familiar shape rose into view, tiny as set against the dragon, but soothing and stalwart as ever, its song rolling cheeringly in her mind, and she nearly laughed for the relief and the joy of it.

She nearly laughed again, at how absurd it was when the dragon threw its head back, tracked Oathkeeper’s flight, opened its giant maw and blew fire upwards into its path.

Flexing her outward-held hand, urging Oathkeeper faster, she wondered vaguely if Oathkeeper might retain the fire’s heat, be hot when it landed in her palm —

Only —

Only — It wasn’t right.

Oathkeeper’s song was still there but it was — it was loud. Trembling in her mind, the sound familiar and yet entirely wrong. It _frightened her_. She flexed her hand until it shook from the effort, her throat burning from more than smoke, prickling tears in her eyes, the song piercing her deep in her chest, like it sought to crack open her sternum and get at her heart, imploring some grace she could not grasp. Wiping urgently at her eyes with her free hand, Brienne could see as the metal of Oathkeeper's head swirled, burnishing itself with beautiful colours which were grotesque — Oathkeeper was only ever perfect in its silver and its brown, and its song was perfect too, until it was painful, surging, became shrill in her mind, and only then did she hear the scream which tore from her own throat as Oathkeeper shattered to dust.

Her knees wobbled.

She planted a foot forward to keep herself from falling and landed on one knee.

Her hand was still held outwards. Shaking. Open. For her hammer. Which would not return.

Her ears rang.

She lowered her hand slowly until it fell to her knee. She curled it to a fist.

Her fist felt empty.

The dragon was still before her, sat back on its haunches and peering suspiciously at the air.

Was the ringing in her ears, in her mind, growing louder? She could not catch her breath. Tugging at her gorget, it dug painfully at the back of her neck but when she gasped — air filled her lungs. Expanded her chest. Every part of her ached. But how… How could that be? No one had touched her. None of them had been close. All that had happened was that —

 _Oathkeeper_.

All around her was smoke. Sounds were muffled. Fire still burned. She felt no heat and heard no crackling. The air was tinged grey and orange, the light from the sky a muddy thing, not piercing the shadows.

She drew a deep breath, and thought of Oathkeeper, wondered if its ash might have carried the distance already, whether she had breathed it in, and a sob pulled from deep in her chest, her eyes stinging.

Then — a shout. A scream.

Brienne dragged the heels of her palms across her eyes to clear them of tears, to try better to see, and that godsforsaken dragon was eyeing the smallfolk. They were some ways distant, but they scrambled together, clutching at one another under the dragon’s watch. Her stomach lurched, fear tightened their throat. Podrick was amongst them, she knew, telling them to take shelter and — _Godsdamn them, why hadn’t they **listened**?_

The dragon stretched its wings, then shook its great head. It lowered its chin close to the ground, huge nostrils flaring as it sniffed, watched the smallfolk through narrowed eyes.

What could she possibly do for them, should the dragon go for them? Oathkeeper destroyed. And with it — there was no song in her mind, only echoing silence. No rumble like distant thunder under the flow of her blood. Stretching her hands, she did try, she tried to reach for the storm once more. A buzz under the pads of her fingers, one bolt sketching between her thumb and forefinger before fizzling. Nothing else. She was only — she was only herself.

One of the men stumbled. A woman gripped his arm.

And they were only innocent. And so small. The dragon was so big.

Its tail whipped through the air, stirring up dust. Across the short distance, its growl thrummed on the breeze, skimming over her, leaving her cold. It took a step.

_Am I to witness their deaths, too?_

She pushed herself to her feet.

 _No_.

There was a shard of wood — it looked to be the broken end of a standard, its bearer one of the dead beside. The pole looked sturdy. Thick around — roughly the width of a lance. The joust had never been hers, but then a dragon was not a man to unhorse. A dragon was only a foe to distract while others got themselves to safety.

A horse wandered, riderless, nearby.

She prayed, _Frigga keep Pod safe._

She must be quick. Pod would try — and if she failed, he would —

 _Failure_. She had not protected Oathkeeper as she ought.

She moved to the horse.

She had not found the Stark girls — women — as she had promised.

The dragon shook its great head, stretched its wings.

She had failed in her oath to Lady Catelyn. Catelyn died where Brienne could not protect her.

The horse looked at her, threw its head and danced a step away, a step towards her.

She had not protected Renly. Had not avenged him.

She clicked her tongue, biting back impatience, held out her hand. Her hand still shook, but the horse came to her. A good, solid steed, up close. Beautiful in black. Brienne mounted, trotted the short distance to where the standard protruded up from the ground.

By the grace of the gods Podrick would be safe. Would live, and find a true knight to serve. He deserved that. Perhaps Jaime —

 _Jaime_.

His name was a lightning bolt spearing down, seeking ground, shearing her heart in two.

She would never see him again.

Never again see his smirk, or his smile — the true one, so bright and so rare it had seemed like a gift. Never again feel known when his eyes sought hers and understanding passed between them in the breath between blinks. Never again witness the sneering curl of his lip, the way he turned his head, vexed, when he acted with the honour he thought lost to him.

She had missed him. She had missed him for so _long_. She did not know what she was to him, but he was a persistent ache beneath her breastbone, embedded in her heart.

Her heart, cleaved now and left smouldering, and she would find her death never again hearing his laugh, his voice. Never again would he call her _wench_ , and Maiden forgive her, but she longed for even that. She hoped — hoped he might think on her fondly. Even as she failed him, too.

She sobbed then, once, the barest breath of sound.

_But you love him._

Brienne gasped, and swallowed down a second sob. It rubbed raw against those pieces of her heart, but with another gasp, and another, she pushed it all down, down, down into her gut.

 _Podrick_. Jaime would take care of Podrick.

She wiped her hand under her eyes a final time.

Brienne set the makeshift lance, circled the horse around as the dragon took a step towards the smallfolk.

The horse leapt forward. It sped faster as she encouraged it, faster, faster, run turning to gallop. A good horse, brave, she leaned forward, wondered if it had a name. Gripping the wood tightly, she narrowed her eyes against the whipping wind to watch the dragon. Larger it grew, as they sped towards it, and it noticed them, finally, turning its great head.

Brienne thought an apology to Ser Thor, for Oathkeeper — _Mjolnir_. For failing.

She clung to her horse. Murmured that it was brave, and it was good, and she was grateful.

The dragon blinked, almost like it was confounded, its girth filling the whole world, and they were close now, waiting for it to open its mouth, her horse not faltering — _brave, brave, it was so brave_ — the dragon snorted, she prayed that the smallfolk, that _Podrick_ —

“Brienne!”

Something hit her side, knocked the wind from her lungs. Her stomach dropped as she sailed through the air. She landed hard on her shoulder, an awful pop in amongst the crunch of her armour, tumbling over and over and over, before finally stopping with a skid, flat on her back.

She lay still, dazed and gasping. Smoke and clouds rolled above her.

Pain filtered in slowly and she sucked in a breath, took stock. Her shoulder was undoubtedly dislocated: it was twinging at her, the pop an echo in her ears. No song countered it. She shoved the thought aside. Moved tentatively her other arm. One leg; the other. Her neck. Her shoulder throbbed then, but elsewise no immediate concerns. She ran her good hand around her head, across the armour covering her chest, her belly, her groin. Down her sides, as best she could reach. The plate was still solid, if dented, in one of two places, but that was all. Distantly she knew she would be covered in bruises.

That mocked her, somehow.

Gingerly, she pushed herself up. The dragon was gone. She ignored the aches resonating across her body, trying to find it but the dragon had vanished. She let out a slow breath, then groaned loudly as the full pain in her shoulder took her all at once.

And then — “My lady,” Podrick was there, and oh, she nearly started to cry again. He was smeared in ash, sweat slicking his hair, and dust, blood, covering his armour, he had a nasty cut over his eye, a bruise on his jaw, but he looked otherwise well, stumbling to his knees beside her.

“My lady,” he said again, urgently. “Are you — are you hurt?”

The urge to grab him to her was nearly overwhelming, but they had never — that was not — she closed the hand of her uninjured arm into a fist and met his eyes instead. “I’ve dislocated my shoulder. Bruises elsewise, I expect. And you?”

Pod shook his head. “Fine, my lady.”

“Good,” she said. Then, “Podrick. _Where is the dragon?_ ”

Something crossed his face which she couldn’t read, and he said stiffly, “It flew off.” She closed her eyes, relief making her lightheaded.

She opened her eyes when Pod said, strained, “You’re sure it’s only your shoulder, my lady?”

“Yes. Fairly.”

Pod nodded. Then he closed his eyes tightly shut, drew a deep breath through his nose. Held it. Brienne frowned at him, searching his face. She didn’t know this expression on him. He breathed out slowly, nostrils flaring, lips tight. Then he burst:

“What in the seven hells were you thinking?!”

Brienne opened her mouth, shut it again. Watched as Podrick breathed heavily, a fierce look on his face she’d never seen. Finally she managed, “What?”

“ _Tilting at a dragon?_ You would only have burned to death and — I would have had to _watch you_ , and then I would be _left_ —”

He paused, breathing heavily. Brienne stared at him, at a loss for words, her tongue dry in her mouth as her heart thumped heavy in her chest.

“I never would have thought _you_ … I know Oathkeeper,” he paused here, a flash of true sorrow cutting through the anger on his face and it raised a painful lump in her throat, “Oathkeeper’s destruction is-is a blow. But your life is worth more than a godsdamned bloody hammer, Brienne!”

“Podrick,” she said weakly.

“Ser,” he returned, obstinate.

She ought to correct him, but could only reach for him, sod it all that they hadn’t ever. She did it without thinking, reaching with her arm of her dislocated shoulder, and the pain was blinding as she cried out and dropped her hand again. This time when he said, “Ser!” it was anxious, and Brienne felt a twist of guilt as he scrambled around to face her.

“We’d best,” he began, then his eyes raised, and Brienne heard the heavy footfalls of armed soldiers.

“Who?” she asked, voice low.

Pod’s look was grim as he said, “Tarly.”

Truly, she did not know which side would have been the worse, Lord Tarly’s disparagements rising in her memory through the blur of the rest. But she would not have them find her in the dirt on her arse like this.

“Help me up, Podrick,” she murmured. He did, and, cradling her arm so as not to wrench her shoulder, together they turned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm sorry! Honestly am not used to leaving things hanging on an angsty note, so doubly, triply sorry...!)


	3. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It arrived this morning.” Cersei's gaze flicked to the letter and back to his face. Her eyes narrowed. “You surprise me by not speaking of Lady Brienne of Tarth.”
> 
> Startled, Jaime forced his expression loose and raised an eyebrow, a chill moving down his spine. “What about her?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My superlative thanks as ever to auntie-social for betaing the hell out of this and suggesting a banger of a line ♥
> 
> Another housekeeping note: have updated the tags to include "I'm in your canon bringing your women back out of the refrigerator". Which is somewhat spoilery I guess, but also I think it's self evident with one character anyway so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Content warning for this chapter: it starts a bit rough, I'm afraid. There is a description of violent nightmares and canon-typical violence against children is discussed but not depicted, references to the TV canon character who died by suicide, references to abusive relationships and past sexual assault, and a description of a panic attack.  
> This chapter also has some Jaime/Cersei, though nothing explicit: for what it's worth, this will also be the sum total of J/C content in this fic.  
> Please do mind chapter warnings and look after yourself first ♥ if you have any questions before reading, please feel free to send me an ask or DM on tumblr ♥
> 
> Chapter subtitle from Soldier by Fleurie
> 
> And since it's been a minute since last we saw Jaime, we left him booted from the Kingsguard and en route to Dorne to fetch Myrcella.

_you wanna take a drink of that promised land/ gotta wipe the dirt off of your hands/ careful son you got dreamers plans_

It had been nearly two months, yet the smoke still somehow billowed up from the ruins of the Sept, the stink tainting the air when the wind blew. And every time it did, his nightmares played Myrcella and Tommen writhing in the green flames as he tried to get them out. They were always in some godsforsaken inversion of the Throne Room, where the Iron Throne’s dais was instead a sunken pit in the ground, and on the walls were standards which fluttered and changed: Targaryen, Baratheon, Lannister. His children were in that pit. Wildfire kindled in the centre behind them, billowing and spreading, and he was laid on his belly at the edge, desperate for them, restrained by some bastardization of the contraption Aerys had used on Brandon Stark. He would beg them — “Come closer, help each other, come now, reach, _reach!_ ” — but they were younger in these dreams than in reality. Too young, really, to understand. In the worst, they would call him Father as they cried and whimpered and he could only reach so far and his hands — he had no hands, no way to grab them, to grip, as they reached, crying, for him, scrabbling, their nails digging into his twin stumps, but it was never enough. He could never save them. They always, always, always slipped away, or fell back, or were just — consumed. The flames — he could only watch, shouting and helpless and gagging as they burned. Failing again to save them.

Last night he had fallen asleep on top of his stump and had dreamed of them. He woke from the nightmare shaking, swallowing bile, his right arm burning as though it was the fire which had taken his hand. Hours later, his missing hand still ached. These nightmares almost made him long for the others which dogged him recently. A new and recurring concoction of his mind of King’s Landing attacked by dragons, as he stood watching from a distant hill, unable to do anything at all this time as the city fell.

When he had gotten a hold of himself, his blood had still been up and he’d been tempted to drag Payne from his bed. But even that surly bastard would have limits. The sun had not yet started painting the black night, and so he lay, waiting, trapped in his chambers and watching the ceiling as the light of dawn finally began its crawling brightening of his room.

Since his return from Dorne, he had slept fitfully, worried for Myrcella, that his lie would come to light, and his dreams made worse as he mourned Tommen, thought of and smelled the ruins of the Sept…

All those people. Wildfire.

He wouldn’t name all of them innocent — the Faith Militant in particular were an odious group — but many of them were, and no one deserved to die like that.

Seven fucking hells.

Hindsight was a damnable thing, but he should not have returned from Dorne. At the time, he had not known. Had only thought to try to reach Tommen, and to reassure Cersei that their daughter was safe.

As safe as she might be. Gods, what had they come to, that he’d thought her not only safer in Dorne than with her mother, but that it was best her mother think her dead?

He had been informed of Tommen and of Cersei’s rise by one of his former sworn brothers as he had made his way to see her on his return. He was terse in his thanks, his feet carrying him the faster and it had been habit to snap that they not be disturbed as he pushed through into Cersei’s rooms.

_In grief for his lady wife, the king —_

He’d had the fleeting thought that they might share in comfort together — _Tommen_ — but Cersei had fallen into his arms as soon as the door shut behind him. She burrowed her body into his hold, said all the right words with a face turned in sorrow, but there remained some things his twin could not hide from him. Beneath it all, her grief blurred with a triumph she could not suppress.

Repulsion had been a wave moving through his body, leaving in its wake so much detritus it had been only his heartbeat in his ears for the span of several breaths. Long enough Cersei had turned her face up, her brow puckering and her lip curling.

He drew a breath, gasped, “Myrcella, too, Cersei,” and let his face mirror her horror. A split-second decision, akin to choices made in battle. Or perhaps rather more like standing at the top of a bell tower as two bells struck. Up close, the sounds were dissonant; deafening; insensible. But with distance, they clarified.

Myrcella must be kept safe.

And Cersei was dangerous.

A strange thing, that he thought his heart must be breaking for her tears, as it always had, yet he could not feel it. Easy, it had been easy to hold her close as she cried into his shoulder. Easy, again, to let her rage, let her pound her fists against his chest, draw blood from the points of her nails dug deep in his arm. He had once been adept at turning her mood — rage or grief it hadn’t mattered — but found now he did not want her kisses. He did not want whatever meagre part of her heart she might lend him. He was far from the room, formulating the plan to protect Myrcella. Steeling himself to trust those he had known for years to be utterly untrustworthy. And they, over Cersei…

_I know about you and mother._

Gods, his _daughter_. With distance, the bells struck true. He would do whatever it took to keep her safe: she was _his daughter_. Nothing like either of her brothers, who he had thought he perhaps understood a little better. But Myrcella… With her soft voice and gentle bearing, he had never expected her to be whip-smart and forthright besides. Sparring so easily with her words all while offering a sweet look that turned to a sweeter smile when she gentled her tone, spoke earnestly. Her smile had been like the sun breaking through the clouds when she told him.

_I’m glad it’s you._

The coded letter confirming her safety had let him breathe again after weeks of tension. Alongside it came the condolences from Dorne: there had been a line in that letter, making clear to him that Doran, at least, had helped Myrcella as well. Given Highgarden's rather subdued response to the deaths of either Margaery or Loras, they were either biding their time, or, perhaps more likely, were aware that Loras was still alive. Jaime had no way to ascertain it, and it left him nervous that they might be the next greatest threat to Myrcella’s safety. Loras might be sworn to serve Myrcella — and heavens preserve him but he trusted the boy — but Cersei was responsible for Margaery’s death, and Jaime doubted Olenna would let that lie. He felt an unexpected and unwanted twinge of regret about Margaery. She had always been kind to Tommen, and he had respected her skills in court, even as the whole charade bored and grated at him.

But weeks had passed now, with no more from Highgarden or Dorne. So for now… He and Cersei wore black. The court wore black. For Tommen. For Myrcella.

And for Kevan.

It was only later he had realized the full extent, had understood exactly what Cersei had done. She was so quick to dismiss their uncle’s death: the careless rise and fall of Cersei’s shoulder played itself in his mind over and over… She had not cared. Their uncle, alongside how many others, had burned alive in wildfire, _her_ wildfire — _wildfire_ for the love of the fucking seven — and _she had not cared_.

She had changed. Or perhaps the scales had fully, finally, fallen from his eyes. The more he considered it, the more he was certain the trip to collect Myrcella was less about their daughter’s safety and more to ensure he was not in King’s Landing when Cersei enacted her plan on the Sept. He may once have thought it to protect him. There was every chance he might have been at the Sept that day, or perhaps more likely, that the rumours — _truths_ — spread by Stannis might reassert themselves in amongst all the rest laid against her, putting him at risk, too.

He sneered. Once he might have thought she sought to protect him for his own sake. But what use was he to her, if he was also in chains?

His mind had once become so clouded when with Cersei. That gnawing in his chest to please her, to make things _right_ when all was wrong. A whisper in his mind that she might finally, _finally_ …

With Dorne, he had been skillfully maneuvered, as always.

Oh how she had sneered when he had asked whether she might wish he stay for the trial. It wasn’t only that his support might somehow reveal their relationship, expose their children — _expose them, expose them,_ like a military tattoo in the back of his mind, as though they hadn’t already been a hair’s breadth from exposure — it had also been his _idiotic display against the Faith Militant on behalf of the Tyrell bitch_. What help could he possibly be?

What help indeed. What help to Cersei. What use was he to her? So he had rounded up Bronn and left.

For all that, those moments with Myrcella… It was likely he’d not see Myrcella again. She would long outlive him — thank the gods, one of this children would — and his death was overdue. He had no doubt the Stranger would call to collect. He had at least held her as his daughter. Had seen her smile with the knowledge. _I’m glad_. It hadn’t — it had been an ironclad grip on his heart, an agony he could not name, and even now, he felt the cracks in his chest which could not —

She had called him _Father_. And he. He had. Had wanted.

He had held Joffrey when he was just minutes old. Tiny, he’d been. Face pinched, hair still damp from a quick wash. Joff’s hands had been so very small, and Jaime had remembered Tyrion then, as a babe. He’d not thought on it in years, but Joffrey’s fingers — they had seemed so delicate but had held so tight to Jaime’s thumb when he’d offered it.

The rest was clouded: Cersei had called his attention, the features he had moments earlier thought never lovelier turned dark with disgust. _Quit mooning_ , she had snarled, he could hear her voice in his mind as though it were yesterday. He didn’t clearly remember, though knew he must have handed Joffrey back. He had not held Myrcella as a babe, or at all until — _I’m glad_ — nor Tommen, though he was present at their births for Cersei’s sake.

It was not that he missed the opportunity to be a father. Gods, no. Not to Joffrey. Not to… Tommen’s round face. Pale and young, too young under his crown. He didn’t like to think on Tommen as he’d last seen him, easy on the Iron Throne, stealing Jaime's vows out from under him. No, not a father to Tommen. Not a father to Myrcella.

Though perhaps. Perhaps now. There might be some way —

Stomach twisting, Jaime scoffed. There was nothing worth considering. All but one of his children were dead, Myrcella so far and hidden away to be as good as, and Cersei’s wishes — which he had _willingly_ upheld for years — ensured that his memories of them were shrouded by distance.

_I’m glad it’s you_.

He turned his face away, squeezed his eyes shut tight. Any plans he may have had, any emotion he thought he felt… They were unwarranted, absurd fantasy.

It was the rest which truly bothered him, looking back on his choices. Tyrion had made it known to him that though she had demanded from him lifelong fidelity, Cersei…

Anger gripped his throat. It all dogged him; was strange, to perceive the attempted manipulations for what they were. He had witnessed her do it so often to others — without the seduction attempt; though he now thought those likely happened too, where he could not witness them — and yet he had never seen it when she came to him. The insinuations and sweetness first, then the affront. The wrath. He had known Tywin had tried to control him, and he had done what resistances he could, chafing against expectation and a clawing need in his chest for which he had no name. But for Cersei. His twin. His beautiful, golden salvation when all there was to life was dark, bitter, isolation. Fed by stories perhaps as fanciful as the tales of heroes he had grown up on. Enamoured of his own mythology, snared in love. And still, he loved her. Perhaps… differently, to before. And even while he came to resent _them_ ; they two, together.

It roiled through him, revulsion sucking at him, tar in his gut, a squelching pit. He loathed so many of his own fucking choices. He had never been so deluded to think Cersei’s hands completely clean. She was a Lannister, after all, and beyond that, he had simply taken her actions as _justified_. Mostly. He recognized the Tyrion-shaped hole to this line of thinking, and yet and still, he set that aside. It was more that this hateful place was cruel to women. It had made sense: he _understood_ , insofar as he could. Quite aside from all the decisions he watched be made for Cersei without so much as a cursory _by-your-leave_ , how her wishes were swept aside as so much dirt, Rhaella’s screams still haunted him, all these years later. A stand-in for Cersei with Robert, and all the other women he had been unable to keep safe in the city, or during battles and sieges and the between times of campaigns. Despite his efforts. Despite his edicts. Only a craven shitstain could begrudge any woman taking what little power she might be afforded. He had been Cersei’s mirror when she needed it. She was meant to be his other half: _his better half_. What else mattered, when they two were together? Golden, protected from the grime in their love for one another.

He thought he had _known_. But perhaps it was more akin to claiming to know love but instead finding you had simply built the walls which jailed you, plaited the leashes which bound you, tanned the leather for the collar which choked you.

_He’s lied to you a thousand times, and so have I._

He should not have returned to King’s Landing. He ought to leave now but no option was above risk. If the risk were only to himself, fine. But there were a handful — _hah_ — open to him and none, none, would work. Cersei would order him back, or he would put someone he loved in danger, or just — there were no roads he could follow to where he wanted —

He scrubbed his hand down his face. Shivered, feeling sweat prickle his brow, the back of his neck. His skin was somehow too small for his body. He’d never— he’d never felt that before.

Once, maybe, he remembered. In those hours alone after Aerys. A long time ago.

His chest ached. Every breath was too shallow. Too quick. He could not. Could not. Get it — under control. His heart still beat but it seemed sluggish in his ears but quick in his chest and how could that possibly be? Gods — something was wrong. He was wrong in his body. It was just — he had never lied to Tyrion. Not, not intentionally. Perhaps the lies he told were to himself. But. He _thought_ he had known. He massaged at his heart through his chest but it didn’t help. He wanted to claw through the flesh to settle its beat with his own fist but he lacked the claws. He thought he knew Cersei, before. And maybe he did, in some way, but this knowing was different. Like claiming to know the sea when one had only had a bath.

Cool and calm blue cut through the bleak and harrowing dark. He sucked in a deep breath, opening up the mired mess in his chest, relieving pressure. Some cruel impulse with the tenor of Cersei urged him to quash the moment of respite; he instead made himself linger. He closed his eyes against the interminably slow crawl of light, and imagined waves on a sunlit beach. Though he’d only once seen such a thing from a distance, the waves were beautiful, and sapphire. They curled before crashing, chasing up a gentle incline of sand, reserved, almost, if waves could be such a thing, but there was some hint of play as they danced back, swirling and trembling into the surf to crash once again. He let himself imagine it, until his breaths matched the curl, the crash, the dance of the waves. Somehow, it also made him feel less alone.

He thought he had known: had always thought love a desperate thing, demanding blood pumped and spilled directly from his heart. Since his return from the Riverlands years ago, he had found himself increasingly wondering about a love which might instead be as reliable as the tide: not always calm, waves always came and their rhythm was their own, and there would always be storms. But. Reliable. Perhaps even renewing in the wake of a squall.

Inexplicably, _she_ came to mind then, her earnest clear eyes. He grimaced a smile: eyes in which manipulations would sit so uneasily should she ever try that she might as well have a signed confession scrawled across her lovely, dour face.

Lovely?

Perhaps.

_… Lovely_.

He drew a breath, allowed it to fill his chest like it carried the word, held it there. Experimentally, he opened his mouth, let the breath escape on a sigh.

_Lovely_.

But.

Long from here.

And truly what chance was there that he might see her —

His stomach turned, his chest tightened alarmingly, and Jaime forced himself from bed. It was late enough now, the Keep would soon wake and if he was going to waste time with thoughts of someone dour, Payne’s ugly mug handing him his arse time and again would have to do.

* * *

Jaime’s mood was improved by the time he made his way to Cersei. Payne was a man who conveyed crotchety bastard with the maneuvering of only a few facial muscles, and who cared not at all for Jaime’s feelings, particularly not when they trained. If anything, the opposite: snickering to himself when Jaime hit the dust. Which, though not the reason Jaime had picked him, was nevertheless something of an advantage. And, frankly, a response Jaime could respect.

All of which, unfortunately, also went a ways to prove to him that he had outstripped any benefit in sparring with Payne. It was he who handed Ser Ilyn his arse more often than not these days. The clacking sounds which passed for Payne’s laughter heard only less and less. Shame Addam was so many leagues away with the Lannister host. Jaime would need to find someone else. He was still not _great_ , would never again attain his former levels, but he was undeniably better.

It even meant that the request to join Cersei earlier than planned fazed him little.

He rolled his shoulders as he approached, then nodded to the guard who ushered him in. His eyes were drawn to Ser Robert Strong first, positioned as always just behind Cersei, utterly still and silent against the wall. A corruption of the station in his gleaming white armour and white cloak. Jaime narrowed his eyes at his oversized helmed head, before turning his attention to Cersei.

She was reading missives and had positioned herself where the sunlight pouring from high windows best highlighted her allure. The enticing curve of her mouth, the fine bones of her jaw, the length of her neck, shining from the gold of her short hair and picking out the glint of her crown. Despite himself, he was tugged towards an echo of longing: he knew the dress she wore. It would cling to her breasts, her hips, her thighs, and swirl around her legs as she moved. His mouth went dry, but his gut clenched. He fisted his hand and looked past her, focussed on the ear of her chair.

She made him wait. This, too, was familiar. A tactic used dozens of times since she was married to Robert. He didn’t think she had done this when they were young; they had simply fallen into one another then. Some small exercise of power, to remind him, and make him agitate for her attention.

It only angered him. He kept his face smooth when she finally looked up at him.

“We have received word from the Targaryen camp,” she said. So like their father. No other greeting, or apology for delay. “From our brother.” The corner of her mouth curled while Jaime's stomach dropped. “It seems he is alive. And serves the false Targaryen Queen.”

“Tyrion’s alive?” He kept his expression benign, though his blood rushed in his ears.

“Did you not hear everything I said?” Cersei beckoned him closer to her desk, and flicked the letter towards him. “Our dear brother will forever seek new ways to betray us.”

He ignored her, reaching to pick up the parchment. His letters still switched on him, infuriatingly, when he was tense, so he made out little of the words. He instead took solace in the familiar script. Later, privately, he might consider what it meant that Tyrion served Daenerys Targaryen of all the damned fool things to do. “When did you receive this?”

“It arrived this morning.” Her gaze flicked to the letter and back to his face. Her eyes narrowed. “You surprise me by not speaking of Lady Brienne of Tarth.”

Startled, Jaime forced his expression loose and raised an eyebrow, a chill moving down his spine. “What about her?”

Cersei’s jaw tightened and she gestured impatiently. “She’s to arrive a few days hence. Lord Tarly told us of the skirmish but neglected to tell us of the Maid’s involvement. Nor that he was sending her here.”

He shrugged against the inexplicable thud of his heart. Offered a bland smile. “Why should that interest me?”

Cersei’s cool mien cracked, her sneer quick. “Oh give it here, you useless —” She reached forward and snatched the parchment back. “I’ll tell you why it ought interest you, listen to this.” Her hand tightened on the letter, wrinkling its edge. She drew a breath and read: “ _With the permission of Her Grace —_ ‘Her Grace’,” Cersei sneered. “Treason is a habit for him now. You ought to have killed him when I told you to.”

“I know it remains a shock to you,” he drawled, biting back impatience. “But I was not eager to add kinslaying to my list of sins.”

“Sins,” she scoffed. “What sins are these, the things done to protect your family. To protect me.” _Protect indeed_ , he thought. Myrcella’s kind eyes, perfect and nothing like his own. The wench in her armour came to mind, then, too. He pushed them both aside.

Cersei tossed her head, an old motion which had once sent a tumble of her hair over her shoulder, revealing the line of her neck, the dip of her clavicle. Not quite the same now, her hair only just curling past her ears. He stared for a beat, wondering how ever such a thing had so easily distracted him.

When he looked back to her face, Cersei’s mouth was lifted, a slight smirk. With a new tenor in her voice, overconfident in her influence, she continued with Tyrion’s letter, “ _I write to inform you of an altercation between several of our soldiers and those of Lord Tarly —_ That was the sum of what Lord Tarly reported to me. You need bring him in line, Jaime. _— Lady Brienne of Tarth involved herself in matters, and the great hammer Mjolnir has been destroyed.”_

Jaime’s heart clenched, he hissed out a low breath.

Cersei did not hear him, speaking on, “ _Our intelligence informs us that Lord Tarly is returning the Lady Brienne and her squire, Podrick Payne, to King’s Landing, where I trust the lady will reveal the details to you, as befits the honour of which her reputation speaks —_ Honour,” Cersei repeated, derisive. There were none so honourable as the wench, though Cersei would never understand. He held his tongue. “ _I entreat you take heed of the capabilities of the True Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name. None shall stand against her, Lady Cersei —_ Lady! _Lady_ Cersei! I’ll have his tongue before I have his head _— May you consider your avenues for action wisely.”_

Cersei dropped the letter. Tilted her head, watching him. He needed to respond, and quickly. But Brienne was sharp in his mind: she had shone so brightly as she took up Mjolnir, was so damnably implacable as she moved through the world, and now he would see her again, _here_ —

_Lovely_ —

Meeting Cersei’s eyes, he shrugged. “This must be some trick. Mjolnir is a weapon of the Gods and cannot be _destroyed_. If Lady Brienne is truly to arrive shortly, we will find the truth of it.” This did not placate Cersei, so he reached. “It is unclear whether the lady met with Tyrion directly. She may be able to give us more information on Tyrion’s position with the False Queen.”

“Information on his position?” Her voice was hard and she frowned at him as though he were an idiot. “His position seems clear. He signed the letter as _her Hand_.”

Yes, that much he had seen. And it was sealed with Daenerys’s stamp. Tyrion had not loved Cersei since they were small children, and Jaime did not doubt he would stand against her. Still. Tyrion was no fool. There must be something more to his choice than to merely spite their sister. And if, as Jaime suspected, Tyrion had added the information about the wench being sent to King's Landing for Jaime’s benefit — and what she had been doing involving herself in a skirmish, he did not know, though could guess it was like as not foolish, and brave — then he would owe his brother a debt for that.

He looked closely at Cersei again. Beneath the rancour and ire was fear. Even now, it irked him. He only — had only _ever_ wanted them safe. All of them. His children. His father. His siblings. Safe, and perhaps, just once, not reaching for the other’s jugular. Literally or metaphorically. This aggravated him. And it tired him.

It was some waking nightmare. Again. _Again_.

“What would you do with the Maid of Tarth?” he asked instead, to divert her.

Wrong again; he had once been deft at navigating the faithless grasslands between Cersei and Tyrion, he was sure. A dragon had never stood between them, though; nor the lingering spectre of a dead boy. No, usually there had been only him, a proud and golden lion. A lion now, less proud, less gold and increasingly silver, with only one paw to strike or defend.

That the wench had been thrust into the grasslands alongside him… Panic raked up his spine and threatened to sink claws in his throat.

He did know this glint in Cersei’s eye; that panic struck against earlier anger and his jaw clenched as fury spread a roaring wind, flattening the grasses in his mind’s eye.

“Perhaps the lady had served the False Queen, then tried to defect, offending her,” Cersei suggested.

Jaime rolled his eyes. The wench served none but those she chose, and Catelyn Stark had been her choice. She was too bloody stubborn — _loyal_ — to change course now. “That seems a stretch.”

“Oh?” For the first time in their discussion, Cersei reached for her goblet, slowly, deliberately. She eyed him over the rim as she tipped it back. _Earlier than usual_ , he thought. “What other reason might there be for the Maid of Tarth to have crossed blades with Targaryen soldiers?”

For that, Jaime had no answer and would very much appreciate one. There was no chance in any of the seven hells that Sansa had found herself in the midst of a skirmish outside Maidenpool. And if she had… Jaime almost laughed at the thought. A new protégé for the wench, he supposed.

He said, “How might I possibly guess what reasons the lady has to guide her?”

“How indeed.” Cersei watched him. “Rumours do circle you, brother,” she said. His jaw tightened. Cersei leaned back. “It does not matter. There is little the Lady Brienne might give us. There is one course of action I have considered.” Jaime waited. “It has been some time since our last. Perhaps the time has come again for another Contest.”

His rejection was so visceral his entire body jolted with it, and he forced even breaths.

They had been arguing about the damned things since his return. Cersei had begun holding tournaments which the smallfolk were referring to, ironically Jaime expected, as the _Contest of Champions_. Cersei allowed prisoners to battle one another: those who participated received special benefits, like extra food or a trip to the baths. The battles need not be to the death — though often they _were_ , if only because of infection and other complications from wounds; the number of men dying on Qyburn’s watch made Jaime unaccountably uneasy — until the final. Whichever fighter reached the top tier won the right to fight Ser Robert Strong for their freedom.

None made it past that point, of course.

The entire endeavour made him angry. There was no dignity or honour in the battles. Coercing prisoners to fight for entertainment. It made his skin crawl, and he had only occasioned to witness one such fight. Cersei claimed it improved the people’s morale, needed first because of the ever mounting pressures of war, and then particularly after the devastation wrought with the explosion of Baelor’s Sept — as though that had been an accident. And that it lightened the Throne’s financial burden. The Throne was the only legal overseer of bets, taking a significant cut. Merchants brought their wares to sell, wealthy attendees bought items, enabling the merchants to pay their tax. Never mind there was some twisted cannibalism at work: many of the fighters had been merchants or other goods and trade providers who were imprisoned for failing to pay tax themselves. Only the wealthier merchants, so those who were already not at risk of failing to pay their tax, were able to afford trekking their wares to the Contests.

At the new arena Cersei had had constructed: painted golds and reds, expensive fabrics adorning the royal box and the boxes nearest it, saved for whoever Cersei best favoured or was trying to sway.

Lightening the financial burden indeed.

Jaime argued for the cancellation of the contests, and the release of tax prisoners. It was absurd to imprison people for not having enough money. An unnecessary cruelty and a waste. Return to them their freedom and return them to their trades where they might contribute to the markets. Perhaps eventually they would accumulate enough wealth to resume tax payments. Cersei considered that avenue an exercise in idiocy and _spinelessness_. She asked whether Tywin would ever resort to such a thing: she had him there. Their father would have left the prisoners to rot, would have considered the Contests crass, and an undignified stain on the Lannister legacy.

Cersei would not hear that, either. What could he know of it? He had always been a disappointment to their father — and in truth, Jaime could not argue that point either. As to the rest: it was pathetic, _maidenly_ on his part to think kindly on the prisoners; that such talk would undermine the legitimacy and power of the Throne. _Her_ Throne.

All that, and without getting to the crux of _this_ particular idiocy. Forcing the wench to fight.

“That would be the height of stupidity,” he finally said

She ignored him. “If even one of the Maid’s reputations are true, she may pose some challenge in the arena. Certainly she would entertain us. Lumbering around in her armour. Thinking herself _worthy_. It seems she was not worthy enough if the hammer truly is destroyed. And that happened on your watch, brother. Do you truly wish to discuss _stupidity?_ ”

Her eyes narrowed on his face. He set his spine. He hardly believed Oathkeeper destroyed, but even if it were, it had naught to do with worthiness. The wench was in his mind again. Her eyes, ever astonishing, had been so wide, filled with wonder as Oathkeeper rose under her grasp —

There was nothing he might say, though, without risking her. He forced himself to incline his head, if stiffly.

Cersei’s smile was barely-there, like she ran her tongue over bloodied teeth, but he saw it. She thought she had already won. For the space of a breath, he loathed her.

“We might disregard the usual ladder of contenders,” she continued, idly now. “And simply test her mettle against Ser Robert Strong immediately.”

_No._ Repressing a shudder, Jaime grit out, “Fuck the rest of it. She remains a high born lady.”

Cersei waved him off. “I’ve no doubt we would do her dear father a kindness should she perish. She brings only shame to her house.”

“Shame? She is renowned for her heroism.”

“Heroism.” In Cersei’s mouth, the word made him taste vinegar. “Some great cow of a woman, pretending at being a man, playing at being a _knight_. Whatever claims to heroism she enjoys belong wholly to that hammer you gifted her, brother —”

“One cannot _gift_ Mjolnir.”

“— She is far more renowned for rumours she enjoyed your cock.”

The solar was so deathly silent in the wake of this that Jaime heard the faint crunch as Ser Robert Strong shifted.

He forced himself to take several slow breaths, to release the painful fist he’d made of his hand, and keep his tone even when he said, “I would not debase myself with a response to such rumours, Cersei, but that you seem so keen to entertain them.” It was on the tip of his tongue then, to prod her. Why, _why_ would she ever doubt him, unless she herself —

He forced the question back down his throat to prickle in his chest. He said, “That distinction goes only to one.” Cersei’s eyes flashed; perhaps he had put too fine an emphasis on the final word. Unable to help himself, he did push, “If the Lady Brienne enjoys any cock, it has never been mine.” Cersei sneered at this, that curl of her mouth when she was set to cut someone and he could hear the jape as loud as though she’d spoken it, but he was distracted, startled that his stomach had dropped, an unexpected twist of anger, at the idea of Brienne being with — Later. Never. It was no business of his. It was no matter. What did matter was that she could not stand in one of Cersei’s contests. Not against Ser Robert Strong; not ever. Jaime said, “Independent of my cock’s activity or, more accurately, lack thereof, I will not stand by as you send her to her death with Ser Robert Strong.”

“You would stand against me? Against your queen?”

“I know you deem yourself above such piddling things as allies,” he drawled, knowing it would needle her, “But many believe it foolish to risk alienating them. The lady’s admirers are many. So then you ask: do I stand against actions which would only give us more enemies? Yes, Cersei. Yes I do.”

“Then you’re either a traitor or a coward,” she snapped. “Because you’re sworn to protect the Throne.”

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Jaime said, caustic, “I recall being released from my vows. And see no threat against which _protection_ is needed here.”

Cersei asked coldly, “Does the Lannister Army under your command not serve its Queen’s needs?”

_No_ , he thought, less surprised than resigned to the truth of it. _Not anymore. Not if there is an alternative_. But it wouldn’t do for Cersei to know it. Not yet. And not when the wench was still between them. He sighed gustily, replied, “Of course it does.”

The silence then was heavy in a way Jaime had learned to dread years ago, as a child standing small before his father’s desk. It was a cold to match the worst tales of winter, and he would never have imagined to receive it from Cersei. He thought himself immune, she would not ever act truly to hurt him, and yet as it extended, and extended, his palm grew sweaty.

“You might be right about Ser Robert Strong,” she finally said softly. Too softly. “Too many gossip about your allegiance, Jaime. I think it time people were reminded where your loyalties lie.”

* * *

In the days which passed, Cersei called on him more than in the preceding two months altogether: demanded his attention and advice on the business of King’s Landing, which she promptly belittled and disregarded, often in the presence of members of her Small Council. Her Small Council was made of sycophants and imbeciles. It did not humiliate so much as waste his time and annoy.

She also pressed him to try and wheedle more money, more resources, from the Castellan of Casterly Rock, convinced Damion was withholding. Jaime suspected he was not, but dearly hoped that he was. If the reports of the various stores were accurate, if the mines were running dry… It was not only King’s Landing facing intensifying hardship, but all the people of the Westerlands. And those few other kingdoms still currently loyal. He could figure no way to verify one way or the other. He suspected any letter he sent would be intercepted, and he did not know Damion well enough to conceive of some coded enquiry. As it was, he mentally considered the Westerlands a rapidly draining financial resource.

He did judge contacting Addam Marbrand, commanding in his stead the rest of the Lannister forces at the Rock, a reasonable risk; Addam should understand his code and respond accordingly. Assuming the raven reached him, Jaime thought he might have a reply before he faced the wench.

He continued to train with Payne. Not much point, now, to find someone else. And if nothing else, it would keep up his strength which he would undoubtedly need in the arena. He also revisited what he knew of Oathkeeper’s legends and the abilities Ser Thor was said to have inherited from the Warrior, the more reliable reports of Ser Arthur Dayne’s deeds with the hammer.

Cersei had sent men out to meet Tarly’s convoy, wanting Brienne brought quietly into the city. To Cersei’s endless exasperation, Jaime had been right: people were not thrilled as Cersei had hoped when word spread that the wench would be a contender. Already things were tenuous: Margaery had been popular, and through her, many had affection for Tommen. Cersei may have rid herself of the Faith Militant in one sweep, but those in its ranks had family who were not best pleased to have lost loved ones. Never mind that there were also those who appreciated the High Sparrow, rank bastard that he was. Preventing upheaval was a delicate dance Cersei was ill-skilled at, and she had invited more dissent in threatening the wench’s life. But Jaime's plans should ensure the wench’s survival at least, even if his own was less certain.

None seemed particularly bothered with Jaime’s life, for all that. Payne had laughed at him, when Jaime had told him the situation, and Jaime had to laugh, too.

He made a cursory attempt to greet the wench and Podrick when finally they were due to arrive, then another to visit where they were being held. He was unsurprised that both endeavours were blocked, and he brushed off the false or obsequious apologies with an imperious shrug. He thought it unlikely the details of his attempts would reach Cersei until after, at which point it would no longer matter. And he would see her on the morrow in any case — _tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow_ — it made no difference, to speak with her today.

She lingered, though, in the corners of his mind all that day and through the last of his preparations. That mottled flush of hers, splashing across her entire face, and her ears, and her neck. Her voice rose an octave when she was provoked; lowered when she spoke from that code she cleaved so closely to; became breathless speaking on the old stories. Not that she ever spoke much, the reticent, frustrating woman. He did laugh to himself, one time, remembering that mulish repetition: “My name is Brienne.” _Indeed it is, wench_. It had annoyed him once; funny that he found himself hoping she’d say it tomorrow. He fancied hearing it once more. Maybe she’d look him in the eyes when she said it. Under that severe scowl of hers, her eyes so serious and so —

_Lovely_ —

Jaime frowned, shoved thoughts of her aside.

He paid his final bribes — the wench would not approve of course, ungrateful — and made his final insistences about crowd seating — she _would_ approve of that, not that he was minded one way or the other.

A strange thrum under his skin, Jaime made his way to Cersei’s rooms. She had insisted he dine with her, this night before the fight. _To ensure you’re fed only the best, brother. And to give you my favour._ It was clear it had been a trying day for her. By the time he joined her, she was already well into her cups. As they ate, her moods shifted between taunting and what passed for affection in her these days. It was poor imitation of his memories, and here at the end, Jaime found himself thinking on the time his love for her was simple. When he trusted her. It was an uncomfortable fit: the Cersei of his memories, who had sustained him through some of his worst days, and this version before him.

After they ate, Cersei dismissed the last servants and came to him. He welcomed her into his arms. She nestled a bit, into his hold, surprising him. Surprising, too, was the longing that tightened his chest. He had expected his anger with her to carry him through the evening, but it was not so long ago he had only wanted to ease her troubles, and come morning, he’d only be redoubling them. He drew a shallow breath, lowered his head to her shoulder. Turning his head, he pressed his face into her neck and inhaled deeply. Her perfume was only slight, and she smelled mostly of Cersei. As she had done before Robert, before Aerys. Those few easy days they’d been granted. His throat burned.

She drew back, reached for the laces of his breeches, and he pulled her hands to his mouth instead. They hadn’t touched one another in long enough that he wondered if she’d drunk so much as to slip into old habits, and watched her face as he kissed her knuckles, the hollow of her palms. When the strangeness of his actions might be cutting through her wine-addle, he pulled her against his chest again.

Cersei scoffed. He drew away.

“I must rest tonight,” he told her. “So I please you tomorrow.”

She said, fond, “Oh, Jaime. You always please me,” and he faltered. Took a breath. Tried to regain —

Cersei’s smile broke free of the mask she always wore, and pierced him. It was more true, more golden, more like the sun, than he had seen in years. His breath stuck. His eyes burned. His heart throbbed painful in his chest. Old dreams buoyed fierce up his throat from some shadowed part of his heart, exposed in the burst of light from the stunning curve of her mouth.

_It’s too late_ , he told himself. _This isn’t who she is any longer._ But she smiled at him still, and his old hopes colluded with her shine.

It was only the span of a breath, for all it stretched to eternity. The jeering glint came back to her bleary eyes after a blink: his craving must have shown on his face. Her smile dimmed, replaced by that dull thing he was accustomed to now, and she continued indifferently, “And if you don’t, I have Ser Robert to get it right.”

He could feel his expression turn brittle, watched as the side of her mouth curled up the way it always did when Cersei sensed petty victory. Those old dreams turned to so much dust, as long he’d thought they were.

Jaime stroked his hand up her arm to rest on her shoulder, and leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead.

“Good-bye, Cersei,” he murmured against her brow.

She withdrew, pushed him away. “Do well, Jaime,” she said, then turned and swayed towards her bed. He left without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I feel like this one ends less angsty than the last, but I'm still sorry! If you're looking for a wee bit of a balm, I posted a sneak peak of something lighter which is upcoming in this fic: not immediate, but also not too far away! You can find it [here](https://nossbean.tumblr.com/post/624384032580435968/so-i-feel-guilty-about-how-the-last-update-of) if you're interested ♥ and thanks as always for reading!)


	4. chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was one step into the arena, the light of the sun gleaming from her armour.
> 
> Jaime had not imagined any reunions with Brienne. If he had, none would have been like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder this fic will be on a brief, planned hiatus for a couple of weeks, so I can read the wonderful 102 (!) things posted for the [JB fic exchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/JaimeBrienneFicExchange2020) starting on Friday...! 🎉🎉🎉Next update for this fic will be towards the end of August, and then should settle into a fairly regular routine! 
> 
> Content warnings for this chapter: ASOIAF-canon typical internalized ableism, Thor: Ragnarok-canon typical violence.
> 
> My very many thanks as always to auntie_social for betaing and generally being the best ♥♥♥
> 
> Chapter subtitle from Blindness by Metric
> 
> Honestly, I have been waiting to be able to post this chapter for months, so I very much hope you enjoy ♥

_got us a battle/ leave it up to me_

Jaime took up the small spoon, twisting to gather the honey on its end, before drizzling it over a hunk of bread. He hesitated before dropping the spoon back in the pot, instead popping it into his mouth as he wandered to the window. Twitching the curtains apart, he looked at the sky. Clear. An expansive and calming blue, clouds only on the distant horizon. 

A good day for a fight, all told, though as he licked the honey from the spoon, he wondered if the weather might change, under the right influences.

He ought not to feel… ready. There was still much which might disrupt his plans. Yet he had slept through the night, soundly, not dogged by worry, and waking only when the servants knocked bringing him breakfast and water to bathe. And he had woken feeling… _all right_. All right, for the first time in… he couldn’t honestly say the last time he felt _all right_.

Jaime swallowed the honeyed bread, then poked at the rest, eating distractedly as he picked through the clothes left, the ones he hadn’t put into the packs waiting at the arena. He stuck a piece of apple in his mouth and tugged out a lighter weight shirt and jerkin. Tossed them on his bed.

It was not so much that he felt lighter. No burdens had been lifted from his shoulders, and if anything he might count more burdens this morning than even the night previous. In slumber, his mind had found more potential risks to his plan, as though the list hadn’t already been as long as his arm — the one which actually ended in a hand. But it was rather as though… as though he somehow found more strength, and.

And. 

And there was Brienne.

Brienne.

There was _Brienne_.

He wasn’t sure — there were no words to describe the feeling. It was something like relief, which in the circumstances was absurd. And in conjunction with the wench, relief was inexplicable. But it was not only relief. He felt strangely calm, like that blue sky. It was so easy to breathe, and it should not be. Not with all that was before them both; all he was abandoning. 

And yet. 

He swapped the dull beige jerkin out for one in Lannister red. He might not be quite so handsome as he once was, and crippled besides, but he still turned heads and was vain enough to want to make a show of it. If Cersei was to attempt this public browbeating, he’d at least look dashing during it. Red went with silver well enough.

He passed his hand down his face. None of this was sensible. Cersei was to oversee all of it. She would be there, watching closely, and he could not afford a misstep. It was clear she thought that he — that she suspected Brienne and he — It was clear she had marked Brienne already.

_If the Lady Brienne enjoys any cock it has never been mine._

He frowned, pulled out a jerkin of deep tan, and took a shirt of forest green instead. They would look well with the dark brown of his breeches. 

Robert Strong would be too close for comfort, of course; ready to step in at Cersei’s command. And the arena: it was brand new. Jaime had walked it now several times on the pretence of examining it before battle, when rather he examined it for weakness. It had been hastily constructed, but still _well_ constructed. Cersei had ensured that at least. He had found what he judged the weakest point, but there was the chance that not even Brienne —

But there it was again. That buoyancy in his chest. A certainty rooted in his gut.

Brienne. 

Here. 

She was alive, and so was he, and it had been so long.

It would work out. A foolish thing to take as fact, and yet he could hardly bring himself to think elsewise. And, the truth of it was, if somehow it did not, at least he would die with Brienne close by. Each of them, weapons in hand. Just as they ought.

He popped the final piece of cheese in his mouth, then set about shucking his sleep wear.

He need be ready.

He was going to see Brienne.

* * *

The preparation room was larger and better appointed than he had expected. Cynically he supposed it reinforced the lie that any of the men forced to fight were respected and might actually succeed. 

Jaime had arrived early, spent time doing warm up drills with the sword he had smuggled in, reminded himself of its balance and weight. He thought longingly of the twin Valyrian blades he had left behind. It had been tempting: Cersei had filled the Red Keep with fools so ready to trip over themselves that it was unlikely any would recognize Valyrian steel amongst the weaponry he’d secreted here. But if they had, he thought even Cersei would understand the import of his giving a blade like that to Brienne, to himself. Even if she had not been able to conceive of exactly why.

He could picture Brienne with it, the sword his father had presented him. It would perhaps not be quite as magnificent as Oathkeeper, but it would be near enough a weapon to match her. As close as something made by human hands might be.

He moved through the next drill, shook off the thought. The two parts of Ice would remain in King’s Landing, wasted as a display on a wall, continuing to collect dust. He swung his sword through a clean arc — it was a fine enough blade, though it didn’t quite sing for him.

Sheathing it, he turned, hefted the shield. He had searched well into several nights to find it. A beautiful piece, and old. The artistry and light weight might fool some: the Valyrian steel inlay so carefully, intricately worked into the wood grain. Despite his research, there was still no way to be sure it would suit his needs, but he did wonder whether it had been made for a similar purpose to his own. Mjolnir and its bearers had long wandered Westeros, after all, though the shield showed no damage if ever it had been used.

A page stuck their head in to alert him the time was drawing near, and he nodded in acknowledgement. The sounds of the spectators filtered in, just as the bangs and bumps of various goods sellers outside the arena had disturbed him earlier. He hoped the fool in charge of seating had followed his instructions, ensured there was a section with no stalls erected, no people seated.

A squire hurried in and set about arranging his armour. He imagined Podrick Payne, a little older now, doing the same for Brienne on the other side of the arena. It was a companionable thought.

The lad had just finished, had turned his young face up for Jaime’s approval when a horn sounded. Jaime said kindly, “You’ve done good work,” and the squire flushed, bobbed into a bow that was too shallow, too quick, and skirted quickly from the room.

A second horn blast. He’d not been nervous of battle for years, yet an unfamiliar nerviness skidded through him. He stretched his hand out, flexed it, then shook it loose. He touched the hilt of the sword at his right before reaching for the shield. With a deep breath, he strode to the door, and pushed through.

It may be a trick of the arena, but despite that it should be smaller, the noise of the crowd seemed louder than the previous Contest of Champions he had witnessed. The irony of the title was particularly sharp. He, a literal champion, even if those gloried years were behind him, seemed insignificant now. And Brienne…

He wondered if the noise was more for him or for her. It would be foolhardy for any of Cersei’s sycophants to openly favour the Worthy Maid over the Kingslayer, but they were not the only ones in the audience. He stepped from the shadow of the overhang and the noise of the crowd rose.

He couldn’t help it. He barked out a laugh. How many of those shouting actually derided him? How many actually despised Cersei? How many shouted his name, privately baying for his blood? 

He sought out Cersei in the royal box, centred on where he and Brienne would meet in the middle of the arena. Cersei was resplendent. Of course she was. She had foregone her mourning blacks in favour of Lannister colours, the red and gold setting her apart in the sea of courtiers in muted tones around her.

He raised his golden hand to her, and she nodded, regal and composed. She was too far away to be able to read the nuances of her expression, but he knew the line of her shoulders. Her worry might have been heartwarming but that he knew it was less for his own sake, and more for the success of this farce.

Just as he looked from Cersei, the noise of the crowd rose again — louder than for him, he noted, viciously pleased — and Jaime turned.

She was one step into the arena, the light of the sun gleaming from her armour.

Jaime had not imagined any reunions with Brienne. If he had, none would have been like this. His next breath was shallow as he watched her scan the arena. She had not looked at him yet, ignored him, ignored the noise of the crowd. And damn her, but he wanted her to look at him. He wanted her to walk closer. He couldn’t see her clearly — she had freckles, he remembered forcibly, but he was too far away to see them — his feet itched in his boots to carry him forward. He flexed his hand, ground his heel into the dirt. Still she had not looked at him, but he could just about see the increasing furrow of her brow — 

Another laugh rose swift up his throat, but this one tasted like joy as it bubbled on his tongue. He swallowed it back.

At last, she turned her head forward and he knew the moment she spotted him. She froze. Her eyes widened, her expression transformed to something he couldn’t read before it fell into something he could. So, she hadn’t been informed — he resisted the urge to flick a glance at Cersei. Instead, ruefully, he offered a minute nod, wishing away that stricken look on her face.

Mindful of Cersei, he raised his golden hand once more and waved. “Well met, Lady Brienne,” he shouted. Brienne flinched. Hunched a little as she raised a hand in turn. With a low growl lost to the respondent roar of the crowd, he dropped his head to focus on the shield. He slipped it over his right arm and tightened the straps. Tighter, tighter than usual. His stump would pay him retribution later, as his prosthetic, too, was tightened to its limit, but if the shield dropped when they most needed it, all would be lost. Once satisfied, he sauntered further into the pit, stopping about midway.

Brienne was dragging her feet as she walked to meet him. It was subtle; he wasn’t sure that anyone else would be able to tell, but he could. He scoffed, and Brienne met his look, so he rolled his eyes at her. Irritation flashed across her expression and her steps became more the determined stride he remembered.

“Ser Jaime,” she said, stopping several steps away. It stunned him, for a beat, hearing his title and name on her tongue, after so many moons and said with actual respect. There was also a touch of irritation, which was rather more usual, but something else beneath. Studying her, he thought fear, perhaps. What could the wench have to fear from him? He glanced at the distance between them: longer than the reach of a blade.

He tipped his head up again, raised an eyebrow. “Have you no words for your adoring public?”

She ignored that. Wouldn’t hold his gaze. Asked instead, “What is all this?”

“A fight. Well, a contest, so spake the smallfolk. You bring with yourself rather more spectacle than those usually forced into it.” He cocked his head, did a more thorough look at her from the top of her head down. The armour he had gifted her was in excellent condition, a few very small dents, but well cared for. Oathkeeper was not at her hip; she carried instead the sword he had arranged. He suppressed a pang of grief for the hammer. There would be time later. Or, if he failed, he would be dead, and then, what did it matter?

Gods but she was big. Long lines, strong muscles, evident even wrapped within her armour. It wasn’t so much that he had forgotten as there was no comparison between this Brienne stood before him with all the space she took up now, and his memories: at times hunched and trying laughably to make herself small. Here today, she had no obvious injuries, her stance solid now, and perfect. Heat flickered low in his belly, a facet of battle fever he couldn’t remember having felt in some time. To meet her in a fight once again… She had been agile when last they crossed blades. He repressed a wince that he’d not again meet her with nearly the skill he had then, his lost hand ghosting a clench behind the shield. One of her hands rested on her hilt, her sword hand hanging deceptively loose at her side. His stomach swooped in anticipation.

He raised his eyes to hers and this time she held. She had coloured slightly, and — her eyes — damn them — they were just the same. Astonishing. And telling. She looked wounded, waiting for him to go on. He cleared his throat, continued, “I’m to prove my loyalty to the throne. You’re to —” He stopped. Couldn’t say it. “Continue your spectacle, I suppose.”

“I don’t understand. I was told this was to the death.”

“Only if one of us dies.”

“ _Ser_ —”

“Come, wench,” he said, and was certain he saw her mouth twitch. Her time away had clearly made her soft, if she was near to smiling with his calling her wench. Brienne’s laugh played in his mind then — that sound when she had lifted Oathkeeper which slipped, sometimes, into his dreams — and at once he wanted it again.

He smirked at her, and the twitch of her mouth became a full tremble, some sweep like relief crossing her face, but it was her eyes that caught him again. Their light changed, sparkled. He’d wanted her to correct him, but this was better.

His smirk eased into a smile, and he gave it to her, freely. “It’s only life or death,” he murmured. “We’ve done this dance before.”

She gave the barest roll of her eyes. Then hesitated, before looking him over just as he had done with her. He enjoyed watching, as her cheeks went a little pinker. It made him inexplicably pleased, though he couldn’t imagine why she flushed. The colour on her cheeks made her eyes only brighter. His heart thumped in his chest. He was certain she had not always been so easy to look upon. Her features hadn’t changed, objectively, he was sure.

From the corner of his eye he saw as Cersei shifted. Her threat to send in Ser Robert Strong played loud in his ears. They needed to start, and soon, or Cersei might make good on her threat. Brienne must never meet Robert Strong.

When Brienne met his gaze again, she shook her head. “I don’t want —”

“What either of us want is immaterial,” he interrupted. Cersei shifted again, the increasingly impatient noises of the crowd filtering swiftly after. He cocked his head. Pitched his voice so only she would hear: “Unless you might use your lightning. Let us free.” 

She hunched again, looked away from him. “I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have it.”

“Have what?”

“The lightning,” she snapped, still not looking at him. “It’s gone.”

It wasn’t. There was still something about her, which spoke of the storm. It hadn’t been there when he first met her, he was certain. It was something, like it hovered at the horizon — the storm loved her. He just _knew_. 

But this was as he’d anticipated, that Brienne might doubt. He would relish proving her wrong.

“Well then,” he said, shrugging. “The Queen will have her entertainment.” 

Brienne winced, turning her face further away from him. Jaime narrowed his eyes at her. “So,” he said slowly, rotating his left wrist, letting his tone curl lazily in the way he knew used to nettle her. “Will you hide beneath your armour, or will you fight?”

She did look at him then. The recriminations and hurt in her eyes stung and Jaime swallowed against the impulse to soothe her, of all the godsforsaken things to want here and now. 

“Ser Jaime,” she said again, and there was finally some warning beneath it. _Good._ “I will not fight you.”

“Draw your sword,” he said.

“I will not.”

“If you wish to continue to speak to me,” he grit out. “You will draw your blade. Else Cersei will send in a different contender.”

Her expression shifted at this; relief, almost. “Perhaps that would be —”

“Draw the damn sword, Brienne,” he snapped, reaching for his own. _Damn her._ “You may not wish it, but I would speak with you.”

She hesitated a beat, then glared at him, but she unsheathed her sword. She held her arm out stiffly, and indeed, as he watched, she huffed, then rotated her shoulder, her lips thinning the barest amount. Had she been injured? Tyrion surely would have — though perhaps not. What might Cersei have done, knowing Brienne injured? Either that or she had stopped training with a blade. That seemed so unlikely as to be akin to his hand growing back. Too rigid, dedicated, was she. Injured then, and about to fight.

Perhaps it would be almost even between them, then. An absurd thought. He nearly grinned at her, to share the joke, but Brienne’s look was so grave he only sighed instead.

Their audience was restless, the noise becoming less excited and more impatient, and Jaime chanced a quick glance at Cersei. At her tight-lipped look, his stomach twisted and he looked back at Brienne. She was eyeing his shield speculatively, some touch of sorrow to the look, but it was gone, covered by impatience in the next moment when she met his eyes again.

She gestured with the sword. “What is it then?”

“Best said with steel, I think,” he said, and struck.

Brienne parried him instinctively. Immediately they fell into an easy rhythm — _slash, parry, jab, deflect, strike, strike, strike_ — It had been so long since he had cause to fight anyone but Ser Ilyn bloody Payne, to spar with Brienne was like the first deep breath after surfacing from a deep dive. 

Even so, something was off. Her injury, yes, though she compensated well enough. Something else —

When they were both close and panting, Brienne grunted, “Stop this,” kicking him back. Jaime took a step back, circled her. She kept him in her line of sight, but he could see she was going to lower her sword.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled.

“I’ll not kill you,” she snapped. “I’m no fool, ser.”

“Are you not?” It was out of his mouth before he’d considered it. The flash of hurt before her scowl darkened again made him feel a twist of guilt. Before he could mutter apology, Brienne repeated, “I’ll not kill you.”

“What makes you think you could?” He gestured to her awkward hold. “You’ve become sloppy with a blade.”

“That isn’t true,” she ground out.

“No? I reckon even this cripple could beat you.” He laughed and went at her again.

“ _Don’t_ —” she slashed at him “— speak —” he lunged, she deflected, pushed him back “— that way —” their blades flashed and, _Gods,_ but it was good to have a challenge, to fight someone better than him. For all she was not entirely herself, it was fucking good to fight _Brienne_ once more “— of yourself —!”

He nearly dropped his sword. Slid back, out of her reach. Heart pounding in his ears, nothing to do with exertion. “What did you say?”

Brienne took her own steps back, her scowl deepening at him. Defensive, panting and halting, she repeated, “Don’t speak that way of yourself.”

Jaime blinked. He had asked, yet still to hear it again... Putting the tip of his blade to the dirt, he leaned his weight on it. The world felt strangely off-kilter. He played up the show of trying to catch his breath, though it was less show than he’d have liked. The shield was growing heavy, too, and he resented his golden hand adding to the burden. He sucked in a deeper breath, cocked his head, raised a brow. “Are you attempting to protect me from myself?”

That startled her, and she cut her gaze away. She was already flushed from their fight, but he could imagine her cheeks darkening with embarrassment. “No,” she said, still not meeting his eyes.

He had to laugh. “Are you now attempting to lie to me, Lady Brienne?”

That brought her back to him, her scowl dark. “Are you mocking me, Ser Jaime?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he drawled. And this time Brienne came at him. He had just enough time to yank his blade free, throw his shield up and she was on him. Her hits were stronger, jarring, heat finally, _finally_ , behind each strike. He laughed for the joy of it.

“Speak,” she snarled when they were close once more.

“No more sweet nothings then?” _What was he doing?_ Even Brienne seemed to think it a strange question, her eyes darting to meet his for only a beat, but long enough to convey her disbelief. He grunted as she landed a particularly hard hit, and pushed aside an absurd pang of disappointment. “What happened to Oathkeeper, wench?” he demanded instead, managing to sneak the edge of his blade past her defence and tap near enough the empty loop on her belt. “It is missing from your enormous hands.”

“I was told Lord Tyrion informed —”

“Tyrion said _you_ would explain.”

She grunted when he managed a strike she had to twist to parry. “Here?” She demanded, swinging a particularly hard hit in return, punctuating her annoyance with, “ _Now?_ ”

“When else? Are you awaiting an invitation to chat over dinner? Or perhaps at tea?” He swept far enough back that he could spread his arms wide to indicate the arena. The noise of the crowd was loud enough he had to shout a bit, but still knew his words would be lost to all but her. “It may have escaped your notice, but I don’t expect we’ll have a chance to share the tale over cakes and biscuits. Or were you hoping for the opportunity to play at court? Dispense forever of your weapons and mail, and return to a life only of skirts?”

Her expression darkened. She moved fast into his range, swung wide and hard enough to jar, broad enough they both knew he would deflect it easily. Her intention was not to harm but to warn. Jaime enjoyed warnings; sign posts for where he exactly ought to go.

“That’s it, then. The tale you tell is your renewed adherence to the expectations of your station.” He thought she would make an excellent Evenstar, when the time came. The wench walked her own path, and was as stubborn as the persistent shine of the stars. None could make her give up what she herself would not relinquish. A warrior and a lady both; she would come to demand from the world such a thing, he knew.

But, if she remained stubborn in her feelings on this, too, then he would use it to his advantage. She ought to know better than to leave her flank open to him. 

He skipped back, enough distance to sketch an approximation of a courtly bow without also leaving himself open to too easy a hit, and played up the courtly grandeur in his tones, “Welcome back to court, my lady. Pray tell: what is your story?”

“I am —” He grunted as she kicked him back again. “— no courtier!”

“No! You are become a god! What are you playing at?”

“Neither am I a _god_ ,” she hissed. But she was distracted again; he had never thought to see her sword work so sloppy. He thrust high, in a bid to snap her attention back, but she missed the parry. Startled, Jaime pulled the hit at the last moment, but not before a thin line appeared on her cheek. His stomach lurched; the tales were unclear on whether Mjolnir’s wielders became invulnerable. Unlikely, given no previous wielder still lived. It was still a shock to see so bright and red the evidence of her mortality against her flushed skin. 

Were this fight true, he might _actually_ be able to defeat her. It was an unsettling thought. Made more so by the way the noise of the crowd rose at this first sight of blood. He dare not look at Cersei; the desire to run rampant through the seats and cut down any who celebrated Brienne bleeding was already hot in his veins.

“Sloppy, wench,” he snarled, swiftly sliding the edge of his blade along hers before tapping the hilt and dancing back. “Your time as a god truly has made you careless.”

“ _I am not a god!_ ” 

Her hold smartened up; though her arm was still a little stiff. Certainly injured, then. The wench would not thank him for it but he would pull his hits from now on. It wouldn’t do, to aggravate it, when the after of this fight was so uncertain.

She clocked it quickly, skilled as she was, and her expression blazed. She was on him again. Slashing, cutting, until Jaime was forced to retreat. Pursuing him, she snapped out, “Oathkeeper might have given me certain powers —”

“Oathkeeper was a conduit. It channeled power for you.”

“It did _not_ —”

“It was not _the source_.”

“It was!”

“ _You_ are the source!”

“I am not a god!” Brienne spat again, lunging at him again. Jaime slid away, and narrowed his eyes.

“ _I am not a god_ ,” he mocked. “Do you not educate your children on Tarth, wench?” Her scowl deepened, but she listened, took steps back on the pretence of regrouping. Jaime continued, “That godsdamned hammer is only a tool to channel the power once the wielder is chosen.”

“It’s not,” she said, but so faint he barely heard her, like she was scared of believing it. A crack in Brienne’s obstinance then. At last.

But she said, chin set, “That was when it was Ser Thor’s.”

“For the love of the — you are not this foolish, Brienne!” He went at her, vented his frustration through his blade. She would easily block him, each strike designed to look flashy but without real weight. Between each slash, he growled, “You did not cease to be worthy when the hammer was destroyed. How could you? You remain worthy of the power.” If he need die today to protect her, he would. But he would voluntarily stroll naked through the Seven Hells before he let her take this from the people, from him — from _her_. 

“Why are you like this?” Brienne ground out. 

He moved in close to grapple with her. Commanded low, “Look at me.” Her eyes snapped to his: he swallowed against the torrent there, and leaned into his own. “You are _worthy._ ” Emotion gripped him, made his voice rough, “You have always been worthy.” 

Brienne’s face was still twisted in an angry scowl, but he recognized the pained hope there too. The crack widening. 

“I’ve heard the tales of you, Worthy Maid,” he said. He’d meant it mocking but the words came out almost rasping, hauled from some tight, secret chamber kept safe deep inside, and he almost resented letting the secret go but he couldn’t seem to stop — “You take your power and you care for the people. You —” He had to swallow around a heavy lump in his throat. Brienne’s expression _hurt_. His breath was ragged. “You protect the smallfolk and the children and the innocent. Don’t turn your back on them now.”

“Jaime —”

He didn’t want to hear it, shoved away from her. “ _You still have the powers of a god_.” He took several steps back. He led her in a turn, so he might be just where he needed when it happened.

 _It had to happen_.

“So, for fuck’s sake, Brienne!” He tried to pour the type of scorn he knew had once riled her most into his voice, but instead it came out far more raw, scraping his chest and his throat as the words rolled from his tongue, demanding, “ _What are you the god of, again?_ ”

All he could see, all he could hear was Brienne. She breathed heavily, ragged, like him, watching him. Pained, and hoping. Like him.

In, she breathed. 

Out. 

A wind kicked up. Swirled dust from the ground and matched her — Her earnest face rioting emotion at him.

 _Lovely_ — 

She breathed: out. 

In. 

Then he saw it. It was there. A flash in her eyes and her expression flourished into the storm.

Clouds vanished the sun, and the rumble of thunder started so low he felt it lifting the hair on the back of his neck before he truly heard it. Jaime almost laughed. Distantly he heard surprised cries from the crowd. He ignored them, focused only on Brienne. She blinked, returned to him, flicked her eyes from his face to his shield, back again, nodded firmly once. It was as though the coming storm was in his chest, a chaotic, euphoric, triumphant thing, and he grinned. The flash in her eyes renewed, redoubled, swift became dancing veins of lightning which fell first to kiss her cheeks, then lanced to her shoulders, down her arms, sparking between her fingers, and as she crouched to push up into a jump, Jaime fell to a knee and brought his shield to bear.

The thunder roared and deafened him as the storm of bolts hit the shield, pummelling him to both knees as they rebounded off the Valyrian steel inlay. He did pray then — to the Warrior, _to Brienne_ , that he had been right about the shield, that his thrice-damned arm would hold, that his aim would be true, _that she might survive this_ —

The surge strengthened, Jaime shouted and —

The silence was as deafening as the thunder before it. Jaime instinctively tugged back hard when someone tried to pull his shield away. He was huddled painfully against the ground, and faintly he heard her frantic: “Jaime! Jaime! Are you — are you — Can you stand? We must go!”

Full sound rushed back into his ears: shouts, crying, a sizzling crackle, the last skid as stones tumbled. There was dust in the air and a metal tang in the back of his throat. He blinked his eyes against the dust, and let his arm relax as Brienne pulled at his shield once more. Then her hand was grabbing his arm, hauling him up, and Jaime staggered against her as pain buckled his leg. She grunted, pinned him to her side, they stumbled forward. He quickly sheathed his sword, then looped his left arm over her shoulder, and just about managed to keep up with her. Brienne whispered in clear agony, “ _Forgive me_ — I didn’t, didn’t think it would be that strong, I meant to — but when it came to me, it was —“

“Don't apologize,” Jaime said. His voice was gravelly, like he’d swallowed one of the bolts. He quickly took stock as they hobbled. His left thigh burned; they’d need to deal with that. The shield was dead weight on his arm, dragging him down, and his right arm and shoulder were screaming at him from fending off that godsdamned lightning blast. Later. He had survived worse. “You did exactly as I’d hoped,” he told her, and awkwardly grasped her shoulder under his hand. 

Brienne lurched to a stop, turned her head to look at him, her brow fierce and eyes damning. “ _Exactly_ as you —”

“No time for that now. Judging by this dust, you’ve rather dramatically made our exit. Let’s use it.”

She drew a breath and looked away with that severe and dour scowl he’d remembered so keenly and only the gods knew why, but his heart throbbed warmth in his chest at the sight. 

She ground out, “We need Podrick —“

“Your bloody squire had better be —“

“You gave him to me!”

“Do you keep all your gifts so well?”

He regretted it as soon as he said it, felt as she stiffened against him. Before he could think what to say to ease her, Podrick appeared from the smoke, coated in dust, shouldering familiar packs. He looked a little worse for wear, a mean-looking bruise around one of his eyes.

“Ser, my lady — your blast and Ser Jaime’s aim — there’s a path out.”

 _Thank the Seven for Podrick Payne_ , Jaime thought. “Don’t just stand there, Pod,” he snapped. “Lead us out!”

Outside the arena was chaos. People were running from it, others towards it. Stray animals alternately fled or ambled. Jaime’s jaw tightened to see looting already. _Was it opportunism, or were things already so bad in the City? If bad, how had he missed it?_ He ignored the clench in his gut; nothing for it now. The smoke and dust from the rubble was spreading outwards, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. Lucky. 

He turned his head to look at Brienne. “Perhaps they’ll title this new thoroughfare you’ve given them _Wench’s Way._ ” Oh, the look she shot him. Delighted, he laughed in her face.

“We can use this,” Podrick said quietly. Then more assuredly, “I can get us horses. If you both will wait...” Jaime watched, oddly proud, as Pod looked for some safe spot for them. He pointed. “There? I’ll be fast.”

It was an alcove, one of many where market vendors stored their wares on days such as this. Better: its proprietor was nowhere in sight and the cart had overturned in front of it offering shelter from searching eyes. Jaime approved, and Brienne said gratefully, “Thank you, Pod. Hurry.”

“You’ve trained him well,” Jaime said, and enjoyed the flush which appeared on her cheeks as she navigated them over. Only pink splotches — he would strive for red before the day was out.

Brienne didn’t respond, only set him to rest against the wall as she arranged crates for them to sit on. She helped him loosen the shield from his arm, setting it carefully aside, and Jaime sat gingerly, leaning on his left hand as he kept his right arm tight to his chest. He glanced down at his thigh: a scorch mark, maybe a hand’s breadth in length. There must have been an errant bolt which singed as it passed. He almost chuckled: perhaps Brienne did need the hammer’s control yet. 

“Let us tend to your leg, Ser Jaime,” Brienne said, settling next to him. 

He raised his head to look at her, watched as she paled and cringed examining the wound. He had had significantly worse, with Brienne alongside him, so he could only conclude it was guilt which turned her expression. It was on the tip of his tongue to prod her for it, but instead he found himself saying, “ _Ser_ Jaime. Is it only Jaime when you fear me dying, wench?”

Her head snapped up, so close to his as she met his eyes, and his next words died on his tongue. 

He was lost. 

He hadn’t appreciated it — _couldn’t_ — earlier, or in the midst of their fight. _Still calm, somehow_ , he thought. _Through all this, and with me needling her_. Relief swept him. Gods, but he had missed her. Missed those astonishing eyes. Missed her crooked nose, and her too large mouth, and there they were, her too many freckles, just scattered so heartily, like daisies in a field, and her sweat soaked hair alternately sticking up as though some beast had set its tongue to her mane or stealing from her pins to plaster against her cheeks, her forehead, her neck... The thick, muscular bands of her neck splashed generously again with freckles, disappearing under her gorget, leading to her broad shoulders — 

She had stood, proud and defiant before him, in the baths of Harrenhal —

He wished she would speak again. Of a sudden, he missed her voice, deep and smooth, even when he managed only to goad her into lashing out.

Gods. 

_Brienne_. Brienne was _here_. 

_Lovely_.

As he watched, her expression morphed into something he didn’t understand, and she looked quickly away. He had been staring. Her flush renewed, spread up from beneath her armour to stain her face. He shifted as his own cheeks heated, leaving him nonplussed.

From somewhere Brienne produced a length of clean linen, and set about wrapping the wound. _Still so gentle,_ he thought, then stiffened, when she reached between his legs to find the edge of the cloth, accidentally brushed the sensitive inside of his thigh. Her touch was light across the pulsing ache of the burn, but when he found himself holding still, steadying his breathing, it had naught to do with the pain and everything to do with her touching his thigh, so easily, like it was habit — he couldn’t make sense of it. Again his breath caught when she smoothed the pads of her fingers along the edge of the wrap, his abdomen tightening inexplicably — was he truly so — 

“As I am only ever Brienne when you wish to shout at me. Ser,” she said to his lap.

It took a beat for her words to reach him, then Jaime spluttered out a laugh. “Are you teasing me, _Brienne?_ ”

“No,” she said, too quickly, too forcefully, but there was some small sly shift in her expression — what he could see of it — a tremble, again, of a smile, and then, “ _Jaime,_ ” and by the end of his name whispered almost playfully by Brienne, an expansive craving had unfurled from his chest, out, out through his body. She tightened the binding, then tipped her face up to him again, some relief in her eyes, the play of that smile around the corner of her lips, and he wanted, wanted very badly to set his fingers to the edge of it —

He set his fingers to the edge of her jaw instead.

Then froze, his heart so loud in his ears he wondered briefly of Brienne’s thunder. But no. Brienne’s breath only stuttered, the whole enormous lot of her going utterly still before him, her eyes wide and unblinking, trained on his face.

He should — he really should release her, but instead he released only a breath, brushed his thumb gently under the cut he'd left on her cheek. The blood and sweat smeared, a smudge he wanted to wipe clean, wipe away the cut that caused it. “We ought to tend to this, too,” he murmured. Brienne swallowed, her skin was hot under the pads of his fingers, and he said, more quietly than he meant to, "I'm sorry for it."

Her mouth parted, puffed out a breath which ghosted against his chin and then she drew a breath, a breath which shivered and slipped down his spine, and she murmured, "I hardly feel it."

"Battle fever," he suggested. He should drop his hand, pull away. He should, he should. But he didn’t want to let her go, was so glad she was here, and alive, and close —

She said quietly, "Perhaps."

"That may be the easiest you've ever agreed with me," he said, voice low, and slowly smiled.

 _Let go, let her go,_ he thought, but he couldn't seem to make himself.

The expression was back on her face, the one he couldn't read but which set something tumbling through him, warming him, and — and still he was touching her, just the tips of his fingers, his thumb under the cut, he ought to release her, let her go. But she was watching him so closely, and she hadn't moved an inch, and her eyes were so big and, and so — and that craving was still there, gratifying somehow, but demanding something of him, and what, what did it want? His meat of his fingers, his palm prickled from the heat of her blush radiating from her skin, and Brienne —

“Sers, my lady,” Podrick gasped at them, startling him. Jaime yanked back his hand. Brienne jolted straight. The chaos of King's Landing reasserted itself, and there was Podrick, on the other side of the cart, breathing heavily. “Three horses,” he said, proud and superfluous, as there they were, snorting and stomping beside him.

With a final tug to the linen, Brienne jerked to her feet, said, “Well done, Podrick.” Jaime echoed her, and curled his hand into a fist, then shook it loose. Rolled his shoulders, shook his leg loose until his burn protested, until the lingering... something was gone.

The dust from the explosion had thickened while Brienne tended to him — visibility was low. It was sound which travelled. Worried voices, the unmistakable snapping shout of the Gold Cloaks. He spared a thought for Cersei, no doubt whisked away by her pet Strong and surrounded by her toadying lackwits, guards three men thick around them. He levered himself up, watched Brienne move towards Pod with the horses. They put their heads together, muttering as they quickly divvied up whatever other supplies Pod had pilfered, spreading them amongst saddlebags and the packs Jaime had arranged. It was all so natural. A camaraderie borne of moons — more than a year’s turn, together on the road. She glanced back at him, frowned, gestured him forward. “Come, Ser. There isn’t time.”

He felt rooted to the spot. It wasn’t that he wanted to stay — Gods, no, the need to be gone was a living, clawing, snarling thing — but what place was there for him? He was young no longer, crippled besides, and carrying a rotten reputation ripe to make their whole journey impossible, who had forgotten that his place was not by her side. He was even injured now. He would slow them down. Brienne was everything he was not. Young, whole, heroic. Worthy. Cersei had the right of it: the only taint to Brienne’s name was him.

Brienne was watching him closely, the furrow in her forehead deepened when he met her gaze again. She took a step towards him, eyes soothing as still waters, as though the time afforded them by the mayhem was not slipping swiftly away, as though it were only they two in the clouds of dust. She said softly, “Jaime.”

The softness was a cruelty. Of course she would entreat him softly. Jaime managed to crook a smile at her. Made it as cocky as he could. “You seem awfully confident I’m joining you, wench.”

It rocked her: he saw the wash of doubt. But it was quickly replaced with narrowed eyes, tight lips, which told him just how much of an idiot she thought he was to imagine he could stay. He had, after all, aided in the destruction of the arena and then rushed for escape with her. He could practically hear Cersei’s sycophants already whispering in her ear that he had somehow planned this betrayal with Brienne, with Tyrion and Daenerys. If he stayed… He had never feared Cersei, and he still didn’t truly believe she would harm him. But he no longer knew her, and he had no place in King’s Landing. He wanted to be away: had wanted to be away, for so long.

Brienne saw it. He knew the moment she did. Her look loosened, her eyes turned beseeching and kind. “Would you come with me, Ser?”

The dust in the air made his throat, his eyes burn. He swallowed roughly, gave a curt nod, blinking. “On the promise you’ll cause no more spectacle,” he said, looking away from her eyes and over her shoulder. “I expect a peaceable journey with you, for once.”

When he cut a look back to her again, Brienne had relaxed a mite, half rolled her eyes and gave him the faintest curve of her lips. He grinned back, managed to make it lazy; more true when she rolled her eyes in earnest. He drew a breath and it, perhaps, was a little shakily.

“Pod,” he barked, and Pod snapped straight as though he’d been caught sleeping instead of straining to keep a lookout through the slowly clearing air. “Grab the shield. And my leg’s injured; give me a boost.” Podrick rushed over, and immediately got into position. Well trained indeed.

“We’ll need to tend it properly, ser,” Brienne said, as she easily mounted her own horse. “Wash it. A stream somewhere, if it —”

“We must be far away first,” Jaime interrupted, settling into his saddle as Pod quickly secured the shield to Jaime’s mount, then hurried to his own. Jaime could hear no more of the Gold Cloaks, but that soothed him not at all. “Quickly now. A small burn matters not at all to a corpse.”

Brienne threw a glare his way for that, and Jaime raised his golden hand to her in acknowledgement. With Pod settled, Jaime cocked an eyebrow at Brienne. “Where to, Lady Brienne?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😊

**Author's Note:**

> If tumblr's your bag, come play with me [@nossbean](https://nossbean.tumblr.com/)! 
> 
> As well, a flag that the inimitable [@aviss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aviss/pseuds/Aviss) has written a great modern JB/Thor crossover fic which is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20426447/chapters/48457598) and if you've not read it yet, you definitely should!


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